


Tales From Tristram – Series 1 Ficlets

by darkhelmetj



Series: Diablo: Amor Aeternus [2]
Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Flash Fic, Gap Filler, Gen, Halloween-themed chapter, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, PTSD exploration, Prompt Fic, Series-linked, Tumblr Prompt, Writing Exercise, longer fics, memories of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhelmetj/pseuds/darkhelmetj
Summary: Come, stay awhile and listen! Join our heroes in these short tales that fill in the gaps of my series Diablo: Amor Aeternus. Writing style and content varies.





	1. Malthael - Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by the prompt "What was the best thing in your character's life?"; set shortly after "In All Things Light and Dark".

**Solitude**

From the moment the sun dips below the horizon, Tristram becomes Malthael's territory. Not his alone, but it is at least a time when he is free to wander. He relishes the night, and even in the darkness he keeps his cowl raised, all the better to disguise his face. His hair he keeps long for the same reason.

Malthael is a master of shadows, and of hiding. It has always been his mode of operation: to work behind the scenes undetected. Here, it is his survival and his salvation, for the more he passes undetected by the Nephalem, the easier his life becomes.

And bereft of the Pools and the Chalice, he finds his quiet solitude in the evening breeze and the soft chitter of birds. Nothing will replace those immortal moments from before the fracture. His existence had been perfect, once. He had dipped into the knowledge of eternity, seen the threads of wisdom as they wound about creation, and known each decision he made was profound and correct.

He will never regain that tranquility. Such transcendence is beyond the mortal mind. He tries to reach fragments of it, in moments such as these. But eternity is removed from him forever.

Still.

He closes his eyes, and listens, and he  _feels_  things as they fall into place.

In the distance, he hears mortal laughter. Comradery. The tavern is full, tonight. What they celebrate, Malthael does not know. Perhaps some day, he will be privy to such things. Perhaps some day, he will reach out, unhesitant, and someone will reach back without a dagger in their fist.

That thought lingers at the back of his mind. Whispers of mortal wisdom, of all he has gleaned in the scarce year he has truly been alive. He cannot regain the omnipotent vision he has lost. But without it, he feels his eyes opened to truths he had been blind to before.

The voices that haunted him in another world resolve and become something more. Individuals, friends. Joy and laughter.

He smiles, slightly. This is as close as he will get to such truths tonight. But for now, for what he needs, it is enough.


	2. Malthael - Reparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by the prompt "For what would your character give their life?"; set a few months after "In All Things Light and Dark".

**Reparations**

It takes several months for Malthael to accept that he can leave Tristram. The town is not a prison. Neither is Tyrael's home, though it is a retreat for him where he may sleep with a roof over his head. The chains he feels are not crafted by the Nephalem. They are, instead, the product of his own distrust of himself, and what he might do, directionless.

In Salvos, he had purpose. He protected. He learned about himself. Here, in Tristram, he sees his life's destination blurred. Tyrael is content to train and teach and is a pinnacle of extroverted leadership; Malthael desires something very different.

Change, perhaps. Or more, the dynamism of an evolving world. Where his brother brings order, Malthael craves chaos. Not violence, certainly. Or anarchism. But motion and action, the pulling threads of cause and effect, the fragments of logic that drive the world and that he glimpsed, once, in eternal pools.

And so, Malthael gathers his things, packs his bags, and leaves. He tells Tyrael, because he does not want his brother to worry. Then he vanishes into the darkness. The ground is hard beneath his boots. Fields pass, then forests, and before he knows it, he is deep into the world, alone.

Unlike his first mortal expedition, Malthael is aware of his identity. He keeps it hidden, for his safety and that of others. And he watches everything. The world he travels, the people within it. A part of him knows he is duplicating a journey he made long ago, when he had walked from the Heavens to Sanctuary as an immortal, in search of the  _sound_.

The sound still follows him. But it is tangible now. And it is easier for him to push away the screams and the hatred infusing the world. The emotions he had found overwhelming before  _are_  terrible, but they are not the only facets of mortality. Darkness festers, and within it, light still manages to grow.

Malthael travels for months before he realizes what he is looking for. In each city and town, he finds good and evil, light and dark. Where he can, he intercedes on the light's behalf, always working quietly, always tipping the balance to ensure he leaves goodness in his wake. Yet, the human world is fickle, and sometimes his best attempts lead to disastrous consequences.

He requires more information. Or, he is at risk of doing the kind of damage he once did, when he was immortal. Thus, Malthael vows to study the world until he understands it completely; where it came from, and how the Heavens and the Hells shaped it. How they shape it still, for history has become myth in many places. Angels and demons subside in bedtime stories and legends.

In this, finally, Malthael finds his purpose. He collected knowledge once by gazing into the Chalice. The truth is now his to acquire personally. It is not an easy life. The road is harsh, and he sleeps many a night under bridges or in open fields, knowing well that each sleep may lead to ambush and death.

Malthael does not fear death. He understands it intimately, though a mortal drive within him begs him to avoid it as long as possible. He pushes such thoughts away, for now that he has found his duty, his reason for existence, he owes his life, and more, to the world from which he has taken much.

There could be worse things than dying for wisdom. Far worse.


	3. Lyndon & Malthael - Celebrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Set 10 months after "In All Things Light and Dark". Lyndon finds a new friend, whether he wants it or not. Malthael learns about mortal celebrations. Mostly humour.

_**Celebrations** _

Unfortunately for Lyndon, he rather enjoyed being out in the evenings. He appreciated the cool air, the quieter atmosphere, and the sprawling tendrils of darkness that overtook the sky as twilight faded into night. His preference was unfortunate because a certain other individual also preferred the darkness, and he seemed predetermined to catch Lyndon unawares whenever possible.

At least it  _felt_  as though Malthael targeted him for amusement. Lyndon suspected deep down that the man was simply oblivious to how silently he moved through the natural landscape, and his constant scaring of Lyndon was because he never stopped to consider whether others wanted to die from fright.

It took several run-ins with the former-reaper before Lyndon stopped instinctively drawing his crossbow at the first sight of his cloak or the sound of his voice. He was not actually suspicious of Malthael, which he knew made him unusual amongst Tristram's residents. The Nephalem were not pleased about his presence, and he knew many of them wished Tyrael would send him away someplace—preferably to one of the deepest layers of the Hells. Still, old habits died hard, and a buried part of Lyndon's subconscious was extremely concerned about dying to the Reaper of Westmarch.

Thus, one evening, when Malthael had the gall to wordlessly put his hand on Lyndon's shoulder, the crossbow came out and he forcibly pressed the other man against the nearest building.

Malthael raised his hands, palms open, until Lyndon relaxed and lowered his weapon.

"I really must teach you to greet others properly," the rogue sighed. "No normal person approaches another when it is dark and grabs them without speaking."

"I assumed from history it would be appreciated more than a verbal greeting."

"Perhaps if you worked on removing that horrific rumble from your voice I would stop seeing my life flash before my eyes."

"…Rumble?"

"Never mind." It was not Malthael's fault that he associated his voice with impending doom. Or, it was, but it was beyond his control at this point. Lyndon would get over it eventually. "What do you need? I'm assuming you want something. Unless Tyrael has finally taught you the finer points of small talk?"

Malthael huffed as if insulted.

"I thought not. Then, what?"

"Mortals celebrate something called a birthday."

"Yes, we have been known to do that. Personally, I prefer a good drinking evening with Eirena as a gift."

"Would my brother like the same?"

Lyndon nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"I overheard Haedrig mention it was Tyrael's birthday soon. And it is appropriate for siblings to exchange gifts."

"Not exchange, really. More, you give to the other person." When Malthael didn't reply, Lyndon groaned and gestured for him to follow. "Come, let's go someplace where we can have this asinine conversation privately."

The Slaughtered Calf Inn was quiet, save Bron cleaning glasses behind the counter. Lyndon waved to him casually, trying not to laugh at the other man's expression of dismay when Malthael also entered.

"Lyndon," Bron said. "No."

"Your establishment seems rather empty. I am sure we won't inconvenience anyone."

"I won't have a fight in here over him."

"With who, the rats? If anyone cares, we will leave. Until then, bring me a drink. I think I'll need it."

The barkeep sighed. "What about you, then? Yes, you. The silent one."

"Tea."

Bron stared. "Tea."

"Yes. Leaves steeped in hot water, short of boiling."

"I know how to make it."

Malthael raised an eyebrow, as if questioning the issue.

"Just surprised, is all." Muttering, Bron ran to fetch a kettle and set it upon an arcane burner. "The reaper wants tea. Hells."

"That is a good choice," Lyndon said, after the bartender was otherwise preoccupied. "I do not believe alcohol agrees with you. Oh, why the scowl? Surely you remember your young friend's wedding?"

"Vaguely."

"Then I will not mention it again. Except in my mind, where I will continue to merrily chortle about you and Tyrael drunkenly swinging fists at each other."

"I would prefer you not."

"If you insist. Ah, thank you." He accepted his beer from Bron, internally snickering as Malthael delicately took the proffered tea pot and cup and placed them on the table. "Now, birthdays. Yes, Tyrael has a birthday, as do we all. He prefers his be celebrated on the day he fell from the Heavens."

"I am sure I could determine the correct date."

"Of what, when he condensed from the Arch? That is hardly the point. He wishes it to be on that date, so it is on that date. Last year we threw him a rousing party with many kegs that went into the early hours. I believe he slept for two days afterwards."

Malthael frowned and folded his arms.

"Not to your taste, I see. Then what would you have me do?"

"What interests my brother?"

Oh, for the Light. "How long have you lived with him?"

"A very long time."

"I meant in this form, you smarmy arse."

"Ten months."

"Then have you not witnessed his habits and hobbies? Or at least discussed the finer points of living with him? No, of course you have not. Or I would not be sitting here discussing it at this hour and drinking brew far too late for my stomach's preference."

"Tyrael is preoccupied with the Horadrim. We have little time to speak."

"Granted. He spends too much time working. Which is why he deserves time to relax."

"And how would I assist?"

"Malthael. I don't think that is something you can aid him with. Your brother enjoys a good mug of mead and the company of a good-looking individual to calm his soul." When the other man seemed confused, Lyndon sighed, took a long swig, and told himself if he could handle Malthael when he was murderous, he could handle him when he was an unlearned idiot. "Let me interpret that blank face of yours. You have no intention of giving your brother exactly what would help him relax. Therefore, you are asking my help to find him a suitable other-gift that meets both his and your stringent requirements. Am I close?"

"Marginally."

"Then, let me offer this nugget of wisdom for you." He waited to see if Malthael would laugh. He did not. "Pity, perhaps your humour will develop."

"Perhaps yours is underdeveloped. The bar is woefully low."

"Ah, there we go. I see you prefer sarcasm."

"Your point?"

"My, you  _are_  impatient. What I meant to say was that you seem to have gifted your young friend well enough. Those were expensive sickles."

"Talm is a farmer. He would put them to good use."

"And they were an appropriately symbolic gift. It provided him closure. Surely that was not lost upon you? I do not think you are a stupid man."

Malthael paused as he raised the teacup to his lips. "Do not assume. I came to you for advice."

Lyndon rolled his eyes. "Come now, it's not a challenge to insult me."

"Hardly. If it expended effort, I would not bother."

He grinned despite himself. Fine. Malthael could indeed be funny if he bothered. Lyndon could appreciate that, and the restraint the other man clearly managed the rest of the time to remain silent in the face of general stupidity.

"Think of what Tyrael most requires from you," Lyndon said eventually. "It could be anything. Find a way to give him that."

"Vague."

"Helpful. I refuse to do this for you. I did not become mortal the easy way, and neither will you, friend."

At the last word, Malthael's eyebrows rose dramatically.

"Ah, I suppose," Lyndon conceded, finishing his drink. "I seem to have already fallen down the rabbit hole of making your acquaintance. There is an old saying, you know, about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer." He paused. "Why  _did_  you ask me, or anyone, for advice? I do not exactly maintain a reputation of truthfulness."

"You are liked. I assumed it was for a reason."

"Obviously it is because of my wit and good looks. You have a great deal of catching up to do. Ah, why silent?"

"I did not wish to hurt your feelings."

Lyndon burst into laughter. "Perhaps I am doomed to the Hells for saying this, but I think I like you. And do think on what I said. I meant it."

* * *

Tyrael returned home from training to find a roll of parchment placed carefully on his bed. He looked about the house for Malthael and did not find him; he must have already left for the evening. Curious, he sat, unrolled the parchment, and began to read.

_Brother,_

_I heard your birthday approached and wished to find you an appropriate gift. After speaking with Lyndon, however, I determined no physical present will provide you with what you need. I pondered at length on what you might require from myself, and I determined it was both my thanks and a much overdue apology._

_My thanks, because you have been a tireless supporter of my presence. I have intruded on your home and your habits, and you have without question allowed your dwelling to become my own. You had ample reason to decline such an offer, and I am grateful you did not._

_Secondly, I apologize for all that I did before. I would prefer to demonstrate my sincerity through action, but Lyndon was correct to point out your valuing words. Therefore, I express my regret at my decisions, including the one that could have killed you. It is my deepest shame that I did not value your life at that moment, nor respect the relationship we had in our immortal forms._

_I am grateful to have the opportunity to show you otherwise, and to be granted the privilege to once again call you my brother._

_Malthael_

Tyrael lowered the paper slowly as a warm shock ran through him. Of all the things he had wanted or expected from Malthael, he had never asked for such a letter. He did not believe his brother was able to express such emotions, written or otherwise. But perhaps he had underestimated the depths of his mortality, and of the personal growth the man had undergone in less than a year.

"Apology accepted," Tyrael whispered, knowing his brother expected no reply.

Perhaps, though, he could extend his gratitude to Lyndon for providing what had proved to be excellent advice. And, additionally, for tolerating his brother.


	4. Aya - Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by the prompt "What is your character reluctant to tell people?". Timeline: Aya arrives in Tristram approximately 5 years after Reaper of Souls. This fic runs from shortly after that up until a few months before "Arcane and Apples" (which is approximately 26 years after RoS).

**Secrets**

Aya withholds little from others. Like the vibrant clothing she wears, she lets her personality flow outward, enveloping those around her. She is confident and powerful and has never felt more at home than since she followed Li-Ming to Tristram. Here, she has found her people. Those like her, who were feared for their power or unable to wield it safely.

Yet, amidst this colourful world of the arcane and divine, Aya keeps to herself one hidden shame. When she is asked where she comes from, she answers honestly. Caldeum, the Jewel of the East, a city of sand and glass and all manner of marvelous things. When asked why she left, she also answers honestly. Because her father was closed-minded and violent, and they terrified each other, and in such a cloistered environment she would have withered and died.

That is where Aya's honesty ends, for each time she tells the story, she feels a deep, panging shame. Around her she sees community and family. Nephalem drawn together through common interests and purpose. Families growing; children and siblings loved by their parents and each other.

Few know that Aya has an older sister. Ten years her senior, Farah gave everything so Aya could experience a semblance of a childhood. When their mother died, she undertook the role selflessly. When their father raged at Aya's uncontrolled arcane power, Farah always intervened and allowed Aya precious moments to escape. Farah is the reason Aya lives the free life she craved so desperately. And Aya left her behind, in the stifling conservatism of their family.

When letters arrive for Aya, written in Farah's impeccable handwriting, she scurries them away to her home and reads them under the dim light of an oil lamp. She laughs and weeps at her sister's stories of the Great Library, for banal as they are, they are still family stories. A family, ever distant, she sometimes wishes she hadn't abandoned for her safety.

Aya's father passes ten years after she leaves, and she still does not return. How could she attend the funeral of the man who hated her the most? She writes her condolences and receives Farah's in similarly conflicted letters.

The guilt grows, because there is nothing keeping Aya from returning to Caldeum now, except that Tristram has become her home. The town's residents are the friends and family she always wanted. They inspire her to greatness. And the longer she remains, the more she learns the town's secrets. Of the real truth of the Nephalem, and the tall, broad-shouldered man who she quietly admires and wishes she could speak to, save she has no reason. Tyrael is always busy with his work, as is she.

The gap between her and Farah is a chasm, one she cannot cross.

Li-Ming knows her secret, of course. There is little Aya can keep from her mentor, for the woman reads her like a book. She pries little and claims to understand, but Aya is not entirely sure she does. Li-Ming has always been a free soul without the draw of family. Aya wonders sometimes if her lingering connection makes her weak.

And then answers come to her, unexpectedly. Demons swell as they are wont to do. Tyrael is drawn away to respond to the situation directly. He returns with his brother. The one no one speaks of to Tyrael, because the look of pain it brings to his face is intense.

The one who burned Westmarch and bid the souls of the dead to rise.

The Nephalem are incredulous, because their memories of the fight against Malthael are as fresh as when it occurred. That Tyrael would dare bring him to Tristram is more than they can stand. Keep him away from us, they say. Let him have the night, while we have the daytime, if you must keep him here at all.

Aya harbors no ill against Malthael, for she never fought him. She only knows him as the man he is now; sanguine, pale, and remarkably inept at social interaction. Where others see a devil, she sees a man attempting to learn the world. And within even that, she sees a man trying desperately to regain the trust of his brother.

It occurs to Aya that Tyrael must care for Malthael deeply, or he would not risk everything to bring him to Tristram. He would not face the ire of the Nephalem or the disproval of his comrades if family did not matter.

This much, they have in common. And with this driving her courage, Aya approaches Tyrael one day, two mugs in hand, and offers him the opportunity to talk. Nothing more, nothing expected. He accepts, surprisingly, and in return she indulges him in the secret she is so reluctant to share.

For a being born of justice, he does not judge her actions. Instead, he understands. Family is complicated, he claims. Life sometimes pushes people apart, and then brings them back together when it is least expected.

As is Aya's life. Twenty years after she left home, she attends a memorial for Tristram's elderly librarian. She feels Tyrael's eyes on her, and she knows, even before he asks, what he wants her to do.

" _Your sister is a librarian, is she not?"_

For Tyrael, now her friend, she will face her guilt. And perhaps her reunion with Farah will be as wondrous as she has always wished.


	5. Malthael & Farah - Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Set shortly after "Arcane and Apples". Words have power, and some of Malthael's memories are better than others.

**Echoes**

Farah had been up and working in the library for several hours before the front door creaked. She wiped a line of sweat from her forehead, the side effect of rearranging books in one of the archive rooms. She was already exhausted; she hadn't been able to sleep, and as soon as sunlight had poked through her window, she had known she would be awake for the day. It was either make the best of it and get to work or continue staring at the ceiling. One option was vastly preferable to the other.

"I'm not entirely ready for visitors," she called, listening to see if the individual left. The library remained silent. She took a moment to stretch her back, then resigned herself to beginning her public shift earlier than expected.

Farah grabbed her  _zala_  on the way out of the room, then nearly dropped it when she turned the corner and saw her patron. Malthael stood near a row of shelves, his attention on the books. He ran a finger along them, eyes narrowed, clearly searching. He had somehow already acquired a stack of texts, which he had piled tidily on a nearby table. A satchel lay beside them, and Farah saw the corner of the man's personal journal peeking out from it.

"Oh." She wrapped her scarf about her neck, absently wondering why she was concerned about looking presentable when he looked as though he had just crawled from bed. "Good morning!"

He raised his finger in reply, silently asking for a moment. Eventually he located a book, withdrew it, and added it to the stack. Then he turned and stared at the ceiling above her, looking as though he wasn't sure what to do with his limbs when they were not wielding either books or weapons. Strands of hair branched out messily from the one side of his head, a marginally impressive feat given their length. He looked neither awake nor nearly as self-assured as he had that night outside Tristram.

Perhaps that was why he favoured cowls, she thought in amusement.

She hadn't seen him since he had appeared in the library to reclaim his book. Nor had he left her any additional letters. Though Tyrael had assured her there was nothing amiss, Farah was beginning to feel as though he was avoiding her. She wondered if she had pushed him too far out of his habits. Or if, like her, he was simply trying to process and understand everything that had occurred the last few weeks.

"Good morning," she repeated, which garnered her a small nod. At least that was something. "I was thinking of making myself some tea. Would you like some?"

"Yes."

Even better. And it was not a lie; she had been planning on taking a break anyway.

* * *

Malthael claimed one of the chairs by the hearth while Farah disappeared into the back. He forced his shoulder muscles to release; he had caught himself walking about with his hands clenched far too often recently for his own liking. It did nothing to help his mood, nor did it help his still-aching shoulder to heal. And there was no reason for him to feel irate that morning. He had acquired all the books he needed, and the prospect of warm tea was hardly off-putting.

Eventually she returned with a pot and two cups on a tray. She took the chair opposite him and continued preparing the tea. The briefest moment passed before conversation began to escape her. "I could not sleep. You must have been the same, I assume. I have had too much on my mind. And I keep expecting more strange dreams."

Essentially, true. Though the Sight was her domain alone. He raised an eyebrow, curious.

"Oh, nothing new. Only occasional visitations of the same. While I am attempting to nap."

"Tyrael told me of your vision of the Arch." He glanced at his book pile. "I have been searching for similar descriptions with little success."

"I wished to tell you…that night." Her fingers lingered on the lid of the pot. "But it was not the right time." She glanced at his shoulder, before looking away. "I am very sorry for what happened. I could have handled myself better."

"You are not a warrior. And I have experienced worse." He silently berated himself when she frowned; perhaps it was not the correct thing to say. "It is healing well."

"I noticed your bandages are gone."

As if begging to differ, the still-inflamed scar throbbed. He flinched and resisted the urge to rub it. Much like angelic-wounds, mortal ones did not benefit from continued attention once they had been attended to. They required time to knit instead of additional aggravation.

"I meant to write you," Farah said, thankfully having not noticed his difficulty. "But after everything that happened I was not sure what to say."

That, he understood. He had not intentionally avoided her company, and he did not forget his promise to answer any questions she had. But something about them having finally met in person had broken the reliable formality of the letters. His preferred method of communication seemed impersonal for such a situation.

Nor was he the sort of individual to seek someone out casually. That was the expertise of his brother or Lyndon. This meeting was accidental. He had hoped to sneak into the library and retrieve his materials before she arrived. Luck had deemed otherwise. The strangest part was he was not upset about the failure of his plan. Such interruptions to his habits usually aggrieved him, as the past few weeks had shown.

"Malthael."

He shook himself from his thoughts. She was smiling, though her face retained an expression of lingering concern. Before he found appropriate words, a chuckle escaped her, and her eyes crinkled. In the diffuse library light, they appeared startling close in colour to the wood shelves. A rich mahogany.

"This is most odd." She raised a hand to her lips as if trying to stifle her laughter. "I am accustomed to waiting days for your replies. And yet, here you are. Albeit, silently."

Silent, but not inattentive. Instead, he found himself looking her over, much as he knew she was doing to him. Trying to see, to  _understand_  all the suddenly visible facets of the person who had been his written companion for so many months.

Friend, she had called him, when she had handed his journal back.

He was unsure if he had earned the right to have such things. Lyndon called him the same, and though he did not dispute the description, he felt somehow it was different. While he did enjoy bantering with the scoundrel, as infuriating as he could be sometimes, it did not bring the same sort of feeling as he felt whenever he unrolled one of Farah's letters.

Anticipation, perhaps-which might change now he was free to walk about Tristram as he wished. Without the need for discretion, there was no need for letters. Though he preferred a dynamic world, Malthael disliked uncertainty when it crept into his immediate life. And the longer he thought on the situation, the less he felt able to chart where it was headed.

What he did  _not_  feel was loss. Instead, as strange and uncomfortable as it was, he felt as though he had many unknown things to gain. And even more to learn.

"Malthael. Tea?" She held one of the cups to him; steam rose from it, obscuring her face. "Or am I too interesting looking?"

He swore internally; Tyrael constantly berated him for staring, which was not an issue if he were wearing his traveling garments. His casual clothing afforded no such protections.

He took the cup from her and rested it carefully on his leg. "I did not intend to make you uncomfortable."

"My hair is unaccustomed to being stared at. But worry not."

"The colour is different from Aya's."

"Because I am old." She snorted when he attempted to explain. "Shush."

"You…"

"Shushed you? Yes, it is a skill most librarians gain at an early age."

"You were born one?"

"Perhaps. I  _was_  accused of being a particularly solemn child."

"I would not consider that objectionable."

"No, I suspect you wouldn't." She settled back and took a long sip of the tea. "It is strange saying your name aloud. It is also strange how…familiar this all feels."

"Very."

"And it is all right?"

"Strange is vastly different from unwelcome."

"Agreed. I am relieved, though. I look forward to your letters. And I thought your attention had gone elsewhere."

"Why?"

"Is it not your purpose to learn everything? You told me that is why you search and never stay in one place long. I assumed you would eventually have no reason to remain here."

"It is always beneficial to have a place to return to."

"True. I also thought that your attention would be on those worthier."

"Such as?"

"The Nephalem. Your brother. Those who share the sorts of adventures you do." She gestured at the shelves. "This seems dull in comparison."

"The Nephalem detest me," he said, bluntly. "Tyrael requires little attention. And I did not lie when I said I prefer books to conflict. I value them immensely. I thought this obvious. Why belittle your worth?"

She lowered her mug and stared at the ripples spreading across it. "I would not give the Archangel of Wisdom advice. It seems out of place."

"Do not assume. You did not before. It  _is_  appreciated. Particularly since I seem to have misplaced my wings-"

Wings. Wispy tendrils, shattered.

Memories. Rushing and unwanted.

Blades pierced his chest, spilling Light. His soul shattered, each piece wrenching away a fraction of his consciousness. He gasped, overcome by the brief, yet eternal moment when he had  _ended_.

"Malthael?"

He clenched the cup, forcing himself to breathe.

 _Fool. Do not mention such things. You know the results_.

Few things could crack the mask he wore. But moments when  _that_  returned were enough to shatter it. He lowered his head to his knees, fighting against the dizziness threatening to overtake him. He never allowed it to happen around others. Exposing himself, showing such a weakness, left him open to attack.

Infinite voices howled, subsuming him. His vision became grainy.

" _Murderer. Reaper. Angel of death. Die with us, Hellspawn."_

The mug slipped as his hands shook.

His flesh burned. His body writhed. The souls were eating him alive.

"Malthael _._ "

He was wrenched back to reality as she grasped his chin and pushed him upright. Instinctively, he drew away from her, and she released him to slump backward. His flesh was cold; when he glanced at his hands, he found them clenching the arms of the chair, a fine layer of frost silhouetting his fingers.

Death was always close. That it had come to him unwanted was upsetting. He rarely lost control so completely. He had to regain his centre. Closing his eyes, he methodically took stock of the world around him. Calm silence. The vanilla-like scent of old books.

Spiced tea. Traces of varnished wood.

"Listen to me," Farah whispered. "I do not know what you imagine, but it is not here."

He gave up on steadying his breathing, and instead tried to focus on her words, repeating them silently until they were the only things echoing in his mind.

" _Not here."_

" _Not here."_

" _Not here."_

Gradually, the erratic beating of his heart calmed. Feeling returned to his fingers and his lips. The frost melted. And he dared to open his eyes.

She had pulled her chair nearer and was watching him closely. The mug he had dropped she had recovered and refilled. Noticing his gaze, she held the cup out tentatively.

Her fingers shook. She was afraid of him. The ache that realization caused was far more visceral than anything he had just imagined.

"You are safe," she said, pressing the tea into his waiting hands.

"As…are you." The shudders passed into the rest of his body, lessening somewhat, but becoming more irksome.

"I know." She looked to her fingers, frowning as though noticing the tremors for the first time. "I am still here, am I not?"

"I would never hurt-"

"I know. I saw otherwise, with another. Long ago. And if I thought it were that, I…" She trailed off. "You are not him."

"Who?"

"My father. He had his own demons. He chose to let them control him. It is no matter. This is not about me. What I meant is that I believe you, because I know you are different."

"I frightened you."

"Because aspects of you are frightening. But it does not mean they are dangerous, here." Her lips twitched. "I would be more concerned were I a cutthroat. Or a basket of fruit."

The heat from the mug had begun to spread through his hands. He drew it to his lips and inhaled the steam. Caldenese spices tickled his nose. Not the smell of death and decay. Warm, and invigorating.

"Does that happen often?" she asked quietly, her gaze going to his hands.

"No." He flinched as the images tried to return; he kept them down, drawing on the physical sensations around him to maintain control. "Less, as time passes. I was…foolish to have said what I did."

She remained silent, listening.

"It helps if I am distracted. But, I cannot now, as things are."

He tried to find words to explain the habits he had built since he had been resurrected. Those behaviour rituals allowed him to function through careful avoidance of the things that threatened to tear him apart. Even after he had defeated certain aspects of himself, the sheer immensity of his past atrocities had struck him down when his memories had returned.

Six years had passed since, and still the emotions rose sharply in his throat.

It had taken a day to drag himself from the forest, to force his brain from crushing, circular anxiety. Another day, and the very real possibility of starvation, to drag himself from the streets back to the church, where he had fallen to his knees and begged, unspeaking, for some semblance of mercy. The priest, the same who he had almost accidentally struck down, thankfully did not ask questions.

With time, and the prospect of work ahead of him, he had managed to build an internal structure that counteracted the very real feeling that he still deserved to die. That structure had remained with him through winters and storms, travel and rest, and work that ran into the deepest hours of the night. It distracted him from unavoidable truths and gave him purpose beyond certain facets of his being.

And it had crumbled, irreparably, when Farah had handed him his journal and had, in essence, forgiven him. In doing so she had freed him from certain bonds, which had forced him to face them all over again. To consider each of his crimes and the numbing guilt associated with them.

He did not know how he was supposed to  _be_  with such a burden dredged continually to the surface. He was caught between the burning desire to do something and the lethargy to sit and wallow in guilt. The longer he did the latter, the more the unsavoury bits rose to the surface. He had risked relaxing his guard for a moment, and it had utterly shattered his resolve.

Until her presence had lit the darkened recesses of his mind, enough he had managed to crawl out safely.

"I cannot fix what is in you," she said, considering him intently. "But. You seek distraction."

Please, he thought, nodding.  _Whatever you can do._  Even as he waited, he felt the tendrils reaching out. He needed something to consider, to churn in his mind until his unease passed.

"I still have questions." Rising, Farah retrieved a quill and paper from her desk, wrote a quick message, then cracked the door and stuck the parchment over a nail. "The others can wait."

The full gravity of what she had done astounded Malthael. She had closed the library. For him. He knew he was staring, mouth probably ajar, and he honestly did not care. He was too exhausted and emotionally worn to hide the reaction.

Farah retrieved his journal from his bag before rejoining him. She flipped through the pages, pausing on several, before eventually eyeing him up over the edge of the cover. "Is this acceptable?"

"Verily."

"If it helps to write, we can do that."

"No, this is…"  _Breathe, fool. She is doing you a service. You can uphold your end of the bargain._  "This is tolerable. And more than you need commit."

"For a friend? I beg to differ."

"Then, for a…friend, I will provide answers."

Even before she asked the first query, Malthael felt something inside him calm. It was that word again, and all the implications associated with it. Stability, and continued companionship, in place of all the things that had just changed in his life.

Something he never dared assume he would experience. Not so haphazardly, or with so little effort. And saying it aloud, from his own lips, convinced him it was true.

Farah hesitated, having been about to speak. "Anything else?"

"No."

Be damned if he wasn't trying to smile. In place of those other, terrible thoughts, he instead remembered reaching for a rolled parchment, curiosity running through him. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall into the memory of unraveling it and the mystery it contained.

 _ **My name is Farah**_ , it had said.  _ **I am Tristram's librarian. You are the wisdom-seeker, I presume? Pleased to make your acquaintance.**_

"No," he repeated. "Please, go ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story was written after I was well into Series 2; it's both challenging and fun to return to characters at an earlier point in the series-cannon!
> 
> Though it pops up occasionally in the main stories, I never had a good chance to explore Malthael's reactions to the trauma of dying. I wanted to remedy that, as well as build a bit more between "Arcane and Apples" and Act III. Plus, you all need some more scenes between the two of them. A few of you are cheering on Malthael to "get the girl", and honestly, that is such a lovely compliment to a writer. I am glad you like Farah. She really was brought into the series because I wanted a librarian, nothing else, but wowie, characters have a mind of their own. Looking at you, M.


	6. Tyrael – Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Justice is Tyrael's aspect, and he would see it done even in Sanctuary. But mortals seek their own justice, sometimes warped beyond recognition. Set after "Arcane & Apples".

 

**Tyrael – Judgement**

The Horadrim are always impeccable in their duties, and it takes mere weeks for them to ferret out the truth of those who attacked Malthael. The assailants were not part of a greater conspiracy against the Nephalem. They were ill-informed and afraid of the power beginning to surge unfettered through the realm. Rumours of such power centering on Tristram reached their ears, and they gathered with the intent to slay whoever approached or left the town. Their motive was no more complicated, and their desired result no less vile.

Which is the worst possible outcome. In his vast lifetime, Tyrael has seen governments and religions come and go. He has watched cultures clash and cities fall. Organized groups can be met with equal force, opposed, and defeated. The enemies of Sanctuary have fallen before the Horadrim for ages and continue to do so.

But what are they to do when the enemies are its people? Tyrael is a field general, a leader who sees the intricacies of the battle-field, and who leads his soldiers onward in the pursuit of justice and defense of the innocent. He prefers evil to have a face, one he can smash with the broadside of El'druin.

This lingering force does not have one, nor is it even evil, if he allows himself that admission. It is indicative of a greater issue: a rift forming in Sanctuary, splitting those with immense power and those without. When the Nephalem were scarce, they were also unknown and anonymous. As their numbers grow, and inert abilities begin to awaken in individuals across the world, rumours swirl.

They have, for years. But not until now has Tyrael felt the delicate veil separating the mundane from the magical lift. Farm-folk do not simply fear demons. They fear mortals that hunt the demons, or those who would dare bind evil to their will. And they fear the damage and chaos the Nephalem always bring with them. They ask: why do we not possess similar might to defend ourselves?

Those who are powerless always seek power. It is their right to protect themselves in a dangerous world. But neither is it their right to do so at the expense of others' lives. It is in these moments that the muddied morality of humanity confounds Tyrael. He understands both sides, and he sees why conflict brews. But he is Justice itself, and in the courts of law and the morality of the world, one side alone must prevail. Without a specific enemy to blame, he must assess each situation as it occurs, and weigh the behaviour of the accused against their  _reasoning_.

Such ethical greyness clashes with Tyrael's soul. This is Malthael's area, the intersection of good and evil and the motivation that drives all creatures. The Archangel of Justice prefers life to be simply hewn. Certain behaviours are reprehensible, while others are not. It is a remnant of his immortality and the fixed thinking  _he_  was blessed with as an Archangel.

Now, in mortal form, Tyrael is left grasping again for the meaning of justice. Doing good, surely, is included—except he knows those who attacked his brother believed they were acting for the Light. That they could have killed someone who was not Nephalem had never occurred to them. They sought to protect their own. Their families, themselves.

At what point does self-defence become vigilantism? And at what point must the hand of justice come down to stop it? These are matters Tyrael must ponder, for he doubts it will be the first time a random soul is attacked in the name of preventative vengeance. That it was Malthael, who some will argue is deserving of such a fate, is coincidence. The victim could be Myriam, or Lyndon, or Aya, or any of their companions.

Next time, it could be himself.

This is the power of hatred and fear, and the reason why the Evils return eternally even when slain. Though the Prime Evil remains formless, its might creeps across the land and leaves chaos in its wake. Malthael has suspected as much for months, but is unable to explain in detail why he feels so. Until the man is recovered enough to leave Tristram and build upon his theory, he will remain unable to explicate further.

Such are his brother's differences. Malthael has always been finely attuned to the fleeting emotional undercurrents of reality, though he would deny it if asked. It is a flow Tyrael only witnesses when it crests into waves that must be withstood. When the complexities of eternity take specific form, he becomes a bulwark. The final line of defense.

Thus, in the streets of Tristram, as Tyrael organizes his soldiers and fortifies the town in case of a larger attack, he begins to feel an old friend creep through him: the shivers of impending battle, and the reformation of his original Aspect.

And with it, the looming return of the Eternal Conflict.


	7. Ensemble Cast - The Night of Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Set in the late fall after "Arcane and Apples". The Night of Souls is usually celebrated with masquerades, candied apples, and children's tales. In Tristram, where the spirits of the dead are close, it is something very different.

 

_**The Night of Souls** _

Farah watched with amusement as the local children shouted and chased each other about the town square. White and black ribbons tied into their hair rippled as they ran. Around them, older residents helped raise ribbon poles on the cobblestones. Others rolled out casks of brew or brought forth baskets of autumn vegetables. They had been preparing for the Night of Souls feast all morning, and their efforts were finally taking tangible form.

The harvest festival itself had been going for a week and had been an invigorating experience for Farah. Caldeum was not generally host to harvest celebrations; the city's residents instead opted for seasonal balls or masquerades, of which the Night of Souls was one. In Tristram, the Night was the culminating day of the harvest, and already seemed to be a very different celebration from what she had seen back home.

" _Baina,_  we need to find you some appropriate clothes!" Aya waved as she approached, grinning from behind a large woven-basket of apples. "Those are far too bright for this evening."

Farah swiftly took an armful of the fruit and helped distribute them on the tables. "No one told me the dress for the day was dour."

"Just this one day. I forgot how it is back in Caldeum, or I would have mentioned it sooner."

"How could you forget? Endless masquerades." Farah snorted, catching her  _zala_  as a brisk wind whipped it into her face. "Social extravaganzas. Long poems written and read for the dead."

"Politics behind masks and drink. Marriage proposals amongst ornate sculptures of the dead. Lifestyles differ, granted." Aya took a moment to sniff the air, sighing happily as the scent of cooking pies drifted past them on the breeze. "But tell me, did you ever celebrate it outside the Jewel?"

"No."

"Then this will be a treat." She wiped her brow. "The harvest was good this year. Food aplenty."

"The town has smelled like a bakery all day."

"Yes, I'm honestly surprised we haven't seen your letter-friend. I would think this would be too much for him to ignore, what with his poorly disguised love of all things sweet and savory."

Farah smiled at the apt description of Malthael. "I don't think he eats nearly as much as you and that scoundrel Lyndon would have us all believe."

"Perhaps. But someone has to pester him." Her eyes twinkled, and she grabbed Farah's hand. "Come, I am sure I have something in my wardrobe that will fit you. We will find you an outfit suitable for the spirits."

* * *

As the festival space was completed and sunset approached, the pervasive sounds of fiddles and folk songs began to fill the air. Children, who had earlier in the day worn ribbons in their hair, now bore ripped robes of white or black. Their faces were painted with the shadows of skulls or spectres. Some chewed on roasted apples, while others sat about small lamps and learned about tales of life and death. Osseus was a favorite storyteller; the necromancer animatedly retold some of his greatest exploits as the children listened intently. He also indulged them with the newest adventures of his current apprentice, who was off on his own upholding the Balance in Caldeum.

Tristram's similarly clad adult residents mingled about them, some partaking in the prepared feasts of pies and roasts, while others danced below floating arcane braziers. The lamps glowed a silvery-green, meant to represent the souls of the departed who would return on that night. Under the shadows, promises of love were whispered and loud ballads of merriment were sung.

Tyrael enjoyed watching the revelry. Even in Tristram, where the spirits and dead were very tangible, the residents saw the Night of Souls as a carnival. Which was, perhaps, the point. Death was a part of the natural cycle and was as worthy of celebration as anything else.

"This is my favorite night," Lyndon drawled from across the table. "Such palpable energy, and innocent mischief. The best kind."

"Did they celebrate it this way in Kingsport?" Farah asked.

"Hah, hardly! Well, at least where I lived. There were parties and the like, but it was all for the rich who could afford them. We made a game of sneaking into such events and relieving them of their wines and exotic imports."

"Dressed like little shades?" Kormac inquired.

"Of course, that was part of the fun!"

"Only you would think costumed thievery was enjoyable." The templar groaned. "Were you ever caught?"

"Personally? Of course not. I dressed like the dead and stalked accordingly."

"Is this why you're still dressed like a ghoul?" Eirena laughed. "You look sickly."

Not that Lyndon's garb was out of place amongst them, though it was surely the most embellished. They had all donned similar outfits in varying shades of black. Only Tyrael had opted for white, choosing to represent the brighter portion of the celebration, as he preferred. Souls were not static objects that remained in place. They were transient, and though they did not traverse the world in the way many of Sanctuary's residents assumed, Tyrael had seen their glow and did not think the darkened hues the others wore properly represented the true radiance of the mortal spirit.

"The better question," Lyndon continued, "is whether you prefer me this way? Do I win your heart, fair lady?"

"Oh, always. Though I think you have some charcoal wiped into your eye."

Kormac snorted loudly. "I think we established a long time ago that whatever Eirena sees in you is not physical. The make-up is an improvement."

"You knave! I didn't know you cared."

While the three of them fell into a light-hearted argument, Farah leaned in front of Aya and tapped Tyrael on the shoulder.

"Where is your brother?" she whispered, in the hushed tones she always used when asking about Malthael in public.

Aya glanced at Tyrael, her expression quickly losing the relaxed jovialness it had moments ago. "Perhaps we should switch spots. We can speak easier."

"Is it that long of an explanation?"

_No_ , Tyrael thought. But it  _was_  a complicated one. "This is your first time celebrating the Night of Souls outside of Caldeum, correct?"

Farah nodded.

"Then I need to tell you a story."

* * *

The distant light of arcane braziers occasionally broke through the trees as the wind rustled the leaves; an ongoing cascade of autumn colours drifted from the canopy to the ground. Malthael tried to ignore the glow, particularly since the wizards this year had succeeded in making it a distressingly accurate colour. He shuddered each time echoed shouts and glimmers of soul-light came his way.

Tyrael had told him to stay home this year and bury himself under a swath of quilts to drown out the noise. Which may have worked had Malthael been an idiot, and not completely aware of what was going on around him. He was, unfortunately, not an imbecile, and was easily able to imagine everything he did not see directly. It was better for him to go someplace where he could at least try and focus his thoughts.

There were few places within any settlement where he could centre his soul. Libraries were one, but he did not want to risk its proximity to the festivities. He opted instead, as he always did, for a small grove outside of town, where the trees blocked much of the light, and the sound was muffled by the thickness of the forest. Here, with his boots on the dirt and the natural world around him, he could at least try and draw connection to something outside the mortal experience.

He subdued a shiver and tightened his cloak as the wind rustled again. The quilts  _would_  have been warmer. The Night of Souls was frustratingly late into the year, and for two previous ones he had been kept company by the first snows of the winter. For another, he had been caught in a torrential downpour that had eventually turned into an ice storm.

Which he would tolerate again, if necessary. Anything to avoid thinking about the confounding outfits and the general buzz of death about town.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his palms to his face and tried to focus on the sound of the foliage and the distant waves on the river. There was no screaming. No dying. Just the world, of which he was a small part. A tiny, inconsequential part that would not be involved in any terrible adventures, or mass murders, or the sorts of things he had been responsible for in the past.

_Not here,_  he thought.  _Not this moment, or this minute, or this day._

He pushed down the nausea that struck him when he considered such things. Forced the tremors in his fingers to still and his mind to let go of the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Feelings fell away, buried deep in the dirt, until he had left only objective memory and the stark reality of his life.

Then, with the spirits as his witness, he began  _his_  ritual for the Night of Souls: remembering, whether he wanted to or not, every mortal he had struck down in Sanctuary. And pleading for another year, and the continuing chance, to do better by them.

* * *

"I am not surprised," Farah said quietly, when Tyrael finished explaining his brother's absence. "Such reactions would not be pleasant. At least it did not appear that way when I saw similar."

It was far easier to read his face than Malthael's. He did not even try to hide his shock. "Did he…intend it?"

"No, we were talking, and something he said caused it."

"That is unfortunate. It has been awhile since he mentioned having an incident."

"Regardless, I hope he is all right tonight," she said, looking from the table to the celebration around them. The music had grown more raucous as the sun had set. Some of the younger children had gone to bed, and the few who were still awake were being entertained with frightening and sometimes graphic tales of monsters and demons.

For all she knew, they could have been telling stories  _about_  Malthael. She couldn't fault them for that. What he had done was horrific, and had made an indelible mark on both Westmarch, physically, and the cultural landscape of the entire western continent. The Reaper was just one of the many horrors children feared from stories, and that those who were older and wiser feared from experience.

But, the letters she had exchanged with him and the times she had since spoken to him in person told Farah he was  _not_  a monster. He was something far more complex. He was abrupt and often cold, yes, as well as terrifyingly gifted in battle. But he was also witty, learned, and, as she had discovered through personal experience, incredibly  _kind_.

"Farah?" Aya grasped her shoulder gently. "What is it?"

She rose from her seat, gathering her borrowed-robes about her so as not to trip.

"Leaving so soon?" Lyndon asked, as he and his companions broke off their conversation and glanced her way. "We've only begun to have fun!"

"And fun you shall have," she assured them, though she saw Aya's face and knew her sister now suspected what she was planning. "Do not wait up for me."

She had a few things to retrieve before searching for him. But as soon as she was out of sight of the square, she felt Aya's hand on her shoulder again.

"What are you doing?" the other woman whispered, turning Farah to face her. In the shadowed light of the moon, her makeup made her look like an emaciated corpse. "You can have fun for once,  _baina._ "

"I have! This is not about me."

"Exactly. You always do this. You used to do this for  _me_  at your own expense. He is not your responsibility!"

"No, he is not." Farah shrugged off her hand, though she did not turn away. "He is my  _friend_. I don't know if I can help him. But I would at least try and find out."

"And this isn't just your…your incessant drive to try and fix the world?"

The words stung, deeply, but Farah understood where she was coming from. She  _had_  done stupid things in the past to try and fix things that were not her fault nor within her control. With a great deal of time, and with Aya's absence, she had learned to stop doing so needlessly. But age and hindsight did not mean she was incapable of caring altogether.

"There are enough broken mortals in Caldeum alone to keep me busy for eternity, if that were the case," she whispered. "I am not the young fool you remember."

Her sister's ire faded. "I did not mean it that way."

"Yes, you did. And you were right. Also, wrong." She turned. "I do not think anyone can fix what ails him. But I can keep him company through it. No one is meant to be alone on the Night of Souls."

"Take a warm cloak, at least."

"Worry not. That is the plan."

* * *

Though he appreciated the dark stillness of the forest, Malthael also had no intention of freezing to death. When his fingers and toes began to tingle from the chill, he eventually relented and lit a small fire with the tools he had brought. The amber flames licked the brisk air, darting upwards, their sparks drifting between waving branches to the canopy. The light shattered his focus, illuminating tangible facets of the surrounding world and giving his mind constant, unwanted distractions via shadow and illusion.

At least the expected torrent of images had lessened from the previous year. The fleeting faces from his memories were duller. Or, perhaps, he had grown numb over time. He was not entirely sure which was true. It did not matter much. And he would rather feel empty guilt if it meant he did not have to re-experience the searing horror of Westmarch repeatedly, against his will.

" _I do not think it is your place to decide what you experience, Reaper."_

He growled and pushed the thought away, fighting it even as his consciousness dredged it from within his own mind. It was a frustrating and unavoidable bit of mortality. His brain maintained a continual and incessant internal dialogue, one that was often…self-deprecating. And it always occurred at the worst possible moments.

He unclenched his fists and pressed his palms into the dirt, then held them out to the flames. While his skin thawed, he tried to focus on the light just as he had, previously, on the surrounding landscape. Each time the kindling snapped, he flinched.

Fire was not conducive to calm.

" _Of course it isn't. You would much rather feel the icy embrace of that other Aspect. At least it is predictable. Death, the end of all things. Your life, your sanity."_

"Silence," he muttered, knowing full well he was arguing with himself.

The flames snapped sharply, then a second time, louder. Not the fire, he realized, but footsteps, clumsily crunching through the foliage.

He hissed. The last thing he wanted was drunken revelers stumbling on his small sanctuary, least of all on the Night of Souls. He knew the stories they told and held no illusions about his place in them. The patience he had the rest of the year for such comments was not present that night. And neither was the other residents' usual tact.

He gathered his tools and made to extinguish the fire, but before he could, a voice called out: "Malthael? Are you there?"

He froze. Not revelers.

"Tyrael said you would be out here." More leaves crunched and rustled. "Is that your fire?"

Every instinctive piece of him screamed for him to leave, before he was caught at such a vulnerable time. The forest offered many directions for escape. He could abandon the fire and flee wherever he needed. But. What good would that do? Particularly when the voice searching for him was familiar.

And one who had seen him in such a state before.

He let the tools tumble from his hands back to the ground. His voice died, frozen, in his throat. Even without reply, the sounds grew louder until eventually she found him.

"This is cozy," Farah said, a tiny smile on her face. "Have you been here long?"

She was not wearing clothing typical of the other revelers. Given that she had been speaking to his brother and thus had been at the festival, Malthael was more than a little surprised. And relieved; the ends of her usual vibrant dress and breeches poked out from underneath a thick woollen cloak.

It was a much-needed element of normalcy in a night that was usually anything but.

"For the evening," he said, remembering to answer her question. He coughed from the wood smoke.

She eyed the fire as she joined him, her expression openly skeptical. "Fresh coals. You were not cold, earlier?"

"It was preferable to distraction."

"Oh." She hesitated. "Do you want me to leave?"

He closed his eyes and pressed down the palpable panic that sent his pulse racing. For every reason he enjoyed speaking to her there existed a reason he avoided speaking to  _anyone_. Words had power and brought with them all sorts of reactions and memories. Those who knew him best knew to avoid mentioning certain things. And over time, he had grown better at culling such urges.

She had not known him for long. But she had also demonstrated remarkable sense of how to weather such storms alongside him. She was patient and honest. She listened. Those were traits Tyrael did not always have.

"Stay," he managed, gesturing for her to take a place next to him. "I can find more kindling if you are cold."

"It  _is_  surprisingly brisk. I thought I had experienced the worst when I arrived in the spring."

"There was little snow last year."

"So I have been told. Aya said it swirls like sand. I have seen it in books, of course. But never in person." She laughed. "I look forward to seeing it properly."

And perhaps, he wished for her company because she studied the world the way he did. Through words, and then whenever possible, through experience.

"Have you ever read the book about snow?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Malthael nearly asked for clarification, until he saw her eyes crinkling in the firelight and realized she was telling a joke.

"No," he replied, raising an eyebrow. He had known Lyndon long enough to expect a particularly awful conclusion.

"Neither have I. All the pages were white."

Malthael's eyebrow crept further on its own accord.

"I am sorry. That was horrible. But I could not help it."

"It was." He tried to stifle the reaction brewing inside him. "Did you…think of it yourself?"

"Of course. I have better things to do than read all the worst jokes in creation."

"Writing them is clearly a better use of time."

He wanted to keep his face expressionless. But as soon as Farah raised a hand and burst into uncontrolled snickers, he found the oddest noise escaping him. Raw, unfettered laughter. It came from deep in his gut, and the more he tried to stifle it, the worse it became, until he was bent over, his face in his hands, unable to breathe because he was chuckling so hard.

"Terrible," he gasped.

"But effective. I was not sure you  _could_  laugh. I thought perhaps you had only mastered the sarcastic eyebrow."

"Laughter is a…particularly…strange mortal experience."

"Your kin do not do so?"

" _My_  mortal experience, then." He wiped mirth from his eyes and inhaled slowly. "Do not stop being a librarian."

"Do not worry. I learned quickly I cannot beat Lyndon in that regard." She watched him with amused curiosity. "Do you react to his humour the same?"

"Hardly. His face is enough to shock any mortal into catatonia."

"I think I see now why he speaks so fondly of you."

"Are you sure you have not mistaken fondness for thinly veiled insults?"

"I am sure that if Tristram were ever attacked we would be safe. You two could slay whoever approached with your affectionate spite."

"It is not affection. It is a  _challenge_."

"One you win, often?"

"Preferably."

"And if you do not?"

"I suppose I can allow him a victory. Occasionally."

They fell into comfortable silence, marked on by the return of the breeze and the crackle of flames. He had not thought about anything distressing during their conversation. And the fire had done its job and had warmed his flesh. Between that and the distraction, he felt almost…safe. Even so, he expected her to eventually ask why he was there. Or if Tyrael had told her, he expected a comment on his absence from the festivities.

Farah never mentioned either. Instead, amidst more overt glimmers of amusement, she watched him carefully when she thought he wasn't looking. He caught her gaze on him several times, her dark eyes growing contemplative, as though she were trying to puzzle him out. It was an expression he likely made, himself. She was less practiced at hiding it, or she did not care to. But within her friendly exterior lay a sharp intelligence. One he had seen in letters and in the meticulous care she brought to the library.

One, he realized, he considered his equal.

They watched the flames dwindle and reduce to glowing embers. Eventually, Malthael glanced upward, and between the tallest branches he saw the first glimmers of the lights that gave the Night of Souls its name. Knowing it was time, he settled his cloak behind him and carefully lay down.

"Oh," he heard Farah say, her gaze having apparently followed his. "Oh, Light."

In town, some would be watching on rooftops or at the outskirts where the braziers were dimmed. In larger cities, they ignored the celestial display, concerned instead with their parties and masquerades.

But here, in the heart of the wild, where the night sky was uninterrupted by mortal light, the stars began to fall. They streaked out from a point near the zenith, breaking through clouds and fading as they approached the ground. Some flared brightly in shades of aquamarine and amber. Others distantly popped and cracked before exploding into smaller fragments.

"They are not souls, are they?" Farah whispered. She had mimicked his actions and rested on the dirt, looking upward.

"No."

"I thought so. I thought perhaps it was…" She trailed off.

"Why I can watch?"

"Yes. Then, the Night is misnamed."

"An understandable confusion." He paused as a particularly bright star crossed the meridian before diminishing. "For the uneducated. The lights are not dissimilar."

"I have never seen souls. But these are beautiful."

"Very."

He thought she might question him further; he did not know the extent of her astronomical knowledge. The Seraph, particularly his kind, prided themselves on such. Perhaps it was due to the proximity of the Heavens to the true reaches of the sky.

Instead, she said, "I am glad to see this, here."

"You could have watched with the others."

"I had a better place to be."

Under the sky. Beside him. Why the world had granted him this small mercy, Malthael did not know. But for the first time in his mortal life, he watched the stars and felt faint glimmers of feelings he had once had. Of gazing into the depths of eternity and seeing the threads weave and connect, and of knowing how truly insignificant he was within all of it. It was a comforting thought rather than a dark one. That the world was bigger and far more intricate than anyone else imagined.

More complex, surely, than he could ever comprehend again with a mortal mind. Yet, he tried. As did Farah. Together, wordlessly.

And even as the last embers of the fire grew cold, Malthael felt growing inside him a lingering, perceptible warmth.

* * *

Lyndon awoke with his body pressed to the table and his neck turned, stiffly, to the side. He groaned loudly and stretched, trying to remove the aches garnered from having passed out in such a precarious position. Not that he was without company. The others had not gone far. Kormac had fallen from his seat and was snoring on the ground. Aya was using Tyrael's slumped shoulder as a cushion.

And they were all covered in various blankets and quilts that Lyndon did not remember bringing with them. Ah. That was why he was not a frozen corpse. Perhaps they had retrieved them when the stars had begun to fall? That part of the evening was hazy. As was his head, understandably. They had drunk an awful lot.

Yawning, he stretched again and noticed an unfamiliar parchment left unrolled on the table.

_**Blankets for biscuits. You are welcome.** _

Eh? He gave his head a shake, then realized he was  _very_  hungover and immediately regretted moving.

"Stop grunting," Eirena muttered, waving a hand in his general direction. "Trying to sleep."

He was immune to admonishments. Also, nauseous. And the table was completely devoid of any remaining baking. He would have assumed raccoons or the like, except for the lack of crumbs and animal by-products.

"What in the Hells!" Part of the fun of passing out on the table was to ensure easy access to the morning-after breakfast. It was damn near part of the tradition at this point.

Except, they had been robbed. And he had one guess as to who was responsible.

"This is  _not funny_ , you recalcitrant, smarmy, stick!" Shouting made his head pound, but it also brought him great satisfaction. "If you are going to shun this most joyous of celebrations, at least leave us the spoils to eat!"

"Lyndon, shut  _up_." Kormac planted his foot into Lyndon's back, nearly knocking his face into the table. "My head already smarts enough without listening to you blather."

"This isn't his writing anyway," Aya said, having pulled herself upright enough to blearily peer at the note. "This is Farah's."

Oh. Lyndon  _had_  told her about his previous Night of Souls shenanigans. She had been the last person he would have thought would take advantage of such a thing. "He is clearly involved," he argued, though he quieted his voice because he did not want Kormac's other foot to strike him. "Your sister is far too polite."

Aya snorted. "You clearly do not know my  _baina_  well enough."

"And it says biscuits. Malthael is the only person I know who uses that as a catch-all term for baking."

Tyrael groaned, the first noise Lyndon had heard him make since they had all awoken.

"What is that, friend? I did not catch what you said."

"They have teamed up. We are doomed."

"We are not." Kormac stood and glared at them. "You all complain too much. Would you continue, or would you come with me to reclaim our breakfast?"

"I rather like the mental image of the handsome templar on a quest for buns," Lyndon said. Before he could say more, Eirena grabbed him by his collar and hauled him to standing. "Ow, careful! My neck is most tender!"

"Come," she said. "Let us defeat these pesky foes together."

* * *

The library was beginning to feel like a second home to Malthael. The hearth kept the main room toasty, and the chairs were comfortable enough for sleep. Now that he was not restricted to sneaking in during the midnight hours, he could discard the lingering anxiety he had whenever he entered. Though Farah had not opted to close the library that day, he did not think after the celebrations there would be many patrons arriving. He took time to wake properly, stretching from underneath his cloak, which he had previously unclasped and wrapped about himself.

The night had grown cold enough they had eventually buried the embers and then returned to town, where they had found Tyrael and the others passed out amidst the remnants of their revelry. By the time he and Farah had ensured their companions would not freeze, it had been well into the early morning hours. Tristram had finally become silent, and in the calm before the morn they had taken up chairs in the library and spoken about all manner of things until sleep had claimed them.

Amidst it all, he had barely considered the Night. Neither a small nor an unappreciated mercy.

"Ah, you are awake now." Farah appeared by the fire with a fresh pot of tea. She yawned. "When I last checked you were still sleeping. You are going to re-instil in me bad habits."

"I was not aware late nights were such."

"They are when your duties begin early. And when your back is old."

He glanced about the empty room. "I think you have been relieved of your work."

"Thank goodness. Though, I would trade exhaustion to see those stars. What a marvel. To think they are invisible in Caldeum."

Or, more likely, their presence was ignored, as the small wonders of the world often were. The mortal ability to overlook such things was one of the most frustrating aspects of Sanctuary. That he had near-accidentally found someone who was as inclined as he was to care about them was fortuitous.

"I wish we could have spoken longer," she continued, yawning again. "I wonder how much of what you told me is known within astronomical circles?"

"Most, I would assume. If they have been paying attention. The spheres do not hide."

A thick cloud of steam rose from her mug as she lifted it to her lips. "Not from your kin, certainly. I remember reading in one of the books about your brother Imperius forging his spear from a star."

Malthael rolled his eyes; he had forgotten about that footnote in the  _Book of Cain_. "Legend. He thinks highly of himself."

"Even so, with their wi-" She trailed off, apparently rethinking her word choice. "Your kin cannot venture that far?"

"Seraph are creatures of the sky, not the realm beyond. And some are wed to such activities more than others."

"You do not strike me as the type. At least, as you are now. What is that old merchant's rhyme? Boots on your feet, gear in your pack…"

"Arse in the saddle and the wind at yer back?"

She lowered her cup slowly and stared at him.

"With the correct pronunciation," he said, silently amused at her reaction. "For proper effect."

"I believe such sounds are beyond me."

"Have you tried-"

The library door crashed open to the sound of shattering glass. Malthael jumped from his chair, spilling his tea; he instinctively spun, grabbed a stray book, and hurled it at the doorway. The text bounced off Tyrael's chest with a thud and fell to the floor.

His brother grunted. Farah squeaked. They stared at each other for an agonizingly long moment, unspeaking.

" _Must you_?" Malthael eventually rumbled, untensing his fingers. "Or shall I resume sitting in the corner again, where I can better see and anticipate your antics?"

"I was…tripped," Tyrael said, turning to glower at the group behind him. "They were anxious to enter." He knelt and retrieved the book, then tossed it back to Malthael. "Good aim. Were it a knife and I an intruder, I would be slain."

"Lucky I did not aim for your head."

"I think we broke the window." Lyndon's voice drifted from behind the larger man. "Look here, Tyrael. The crack is in the exact shape of your forehead."

To Tyrael's credit, he looked properly mortified. "I will fix that."

"I would appreciate it," Farah said, having finally found her voice. "Just why are you breaking in so early?"

"Because a pair of ruffians stole our just rewards!" The scoundrel pushed past Tyrael into the library proper, where he pointed in turn at Farah, then Malthael. "I appreciate not freezing, but did you really have to loot the feast? We could have brought you some! It serves a very important purpose. I would prefer to cure what ails me, and likely what also hinders these other fine individuals. But I cannot, because they have all. Been. Eaten."

Farah glanced at Malthael and raised an eyebrow, a fine imitation of his own gesture. "Should I tell him? Or would you like to?"

Oh, he very much wished to. With quiet relish, Malthael pointed towards the back room. He held the gesture even as the scoundrel protested. His nerves were still pulsing, and he did not feel like escorting the man when he could discover the truth for himself.

"All right, fine," Lyndon muttered, stalking towards the back. Farah caught his arm as he passed her, halting his progress. "What now?"

"You all have a reputation for absconding with books." She tugged Lyndon's quilt from his shoulders. "I required a trade to ensure  _these_  were returned."

"Trade? Whatever do you mean?"

"Blankets for biscuits," Malthael said. "Or do you require a dictionary?"

Ignoring him, the rogue rushed off, returning shortly with a sack of the sought-after baking. He sorted through it, occasionally holding a piece up for inspection, before tossing the lot of it to Tyrael. The others, in reply, shed their blankets and piled them neatly on Farah's desk.

"They're not really biscuits," Lyndon said, eventually. "You know that, right?"

"One so loud is also not a rogue. But I do not judge."

"No, of course you don't. That would be your brother, I suppose. Come now, Tyrael. How about you share that loot?"

As they began to pass around the food, Farah waved her arms. "No! No, no."

Aya paused as she was raising a flatbread to her mouth. "What,  _baina_?"

"We can't have that in the library. Your crumbs will attract mice."

"Then acquire a cat. You eat in here all the time!"

Farah's stare was sharp enough to skewer an encyclopedia. "I have one.  _It requires rest_."

A strange, unreadable energy passed between the two sisters. Malthael was sure others often saw similar between him and Tyrael, but it was still fascinating to observe it externally.

Eventually, Aya looked away, relenting. "Ah. I see. You are stubborn. Come, friends."

"But it is warm here!" All the same, Lyndon dejectedly followed her to the door, as did Eirena and Kormac.

Tyrael remained, first inspecting the shattered glass, then turning to Malthael. "Did you sleep last night?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That is a pleasant surprise."

"Very." Now that the atmosphere had calmed, Malthael retrieved his discarded tea cup and refilled it, silently thankful it had not broken. It was easier to still his nerves when he wasn't surrounded by the others' overwhelming energy. "Was your evening enjoyable?"

Tyrael sighed. "I would be concerned about your sudden preference for small talk if I weren't sure you were poking fun."

"I would never dream."

"Then rest easy, brother. I also slept well. Given the situation." He smiled. "Enjoy your tea. I will send someone by later to fix the door." Then he withdrew.

Finally, quiet. Malthael leaned back and tried to remember what they had been speaking of before they had been so rudely interrupted. Ah. Merchant rhymes and Farah's strange fascination with the one. He saw no reason to bring up the topic again. Not when there was another demanding his attention.

He looked about to confirm his suspicions, then inquired: "Cat?"

* * *

"A small lie. I thought you would appreciate the quiet." Farah looked towards the shelves, trying her best to avoid thinking of him as a sleek, black-furred feline. The harder she tried, the more the image ingrained itself in her mind.

"A private joke, then?"

"…Perhaps. Is it that obvious?"

"Yes." His lips twitched. "But even Tyrael and I have our secrets." He sipped his tea and closed his eyes, finally giving the appearance of relaxing. "My shoulder has healed."

Farah found his speech somewhat more difficult to follow than his writing, for he often did not explain the jumps in his conversation. Regardless of how this one came about, she knew what he meant.

He would be leaving, and the time she had to speak to him was over. At least, until he returned to Tristram.  _If_  he returned. His private writings had revealed to Farah the dangerous nature of his work. It was not all research and the recovery of old texts. Sometimes, it was fettering out information only he could uncover. At great risk to himself.

"The assailants who attacked us acted alone," he said, his expression having grown unreadable. "We have taken precautions to ensure the surrounding lands are safe. But such actions suggest the world shifts. Consensus changes. I would learn more."

It was not her place to tell him to be careful. He knew the perils. Nor was he beholden to keep her company. They had crafted a friendship around letters, and she wanted to believe it would survive a brief intrusion into tangible reality. He had carried out the same tasks for over half a year without her awareness of it.

He leaned towards her. "Your silence is strange."

So are these feelings, she thought. They burned and ached, mixed with the warm, excitable jitters she had felt as they had watched the stars fall. In fifty-odd years, she had found few things that truly mattered to her. Her sister. Her grandmother. And even they had eventually fallen away or disappeared. This man, who considered her so intently with pale eyes, had somehow, without her notice, become important. Not just to prophecy and the fate of the world.

But to her.

"Where will you go?" She managed to keep her voice steady. "Where does the road take you?"

"Kingsport. To start. I will see what I uncover." He paused. "What would you have?"

"Excuse me?"

"From Kingsport. What would you have me bring you?"

A thread, she thought, which was what he offered now; tied between them, to give him reason to return. Though certain things had changed, the indescribable elements that had drawn them together had not.

"I do like tea," she chuckled, relieved. "I have gone through more of it, recently."

"And?"

"Two requests? I did not think my work was that exceptional."

"Not your work. You."

Farah nearly dropped her drink.

"Your friendship," he clarified quickly, looking away. "I have been a long time without." Then, nearly inaudibly: "My kin are dead. I had thought such a future beyond reach." His knuckles whitened as he clutched his cup.

His kin. Those of his Aspect. He had lead them to Death, and to ruin, for no Wisdom angel had emerged from the Arch since they had Fallen. His journal had described the results clinically, as if to record the history and nothing more. It was one of only a few topics he had not dwelt on in detail.

"I am also grateful for your company," Farah said softly. "If you really wish to bring me something else, find me stories. I always liked them best. And how can I be a librarian without books and words of all kinds?"

"You have modest desires."

"I would not keep you away too long. Or I will run out of tea."

His eyes wrinkled. She saw in them an echo of her own soul. Of unspoken words, hidden beneath the humour.

_When you return,_  she thought, _we can sit and watch the stars. We can talk about the sunrise, and the clouds, and all manner of this life and beyond. The sky becomes clearer with company. The waters, less muddy._

_The world, less lonely. Even on the darkest of nights._

"Then I will bring you tea and stories," he replied, the smile finally reaching his lips. "A fair trade. For a friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fun story facts – Aya jokes about Malthael being a cat in "Arcane and Apples" and apparently the image stuck. The Night of Souls is completely my creation, but I would like to imagine that Sanctuary celebrates something similar. Farah will never be good at writing/telling jokes. Malthael really does call most baking "biscuits" because he's stubborn and it annoys Lyndon. Osseus' apprentice that is name-dropped casually at the beginning will be a major character in Act III. This is not the first door Tyrael has accidentally broken.


	8. Chith - Enigma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was a tumblr ask response from awhile back. One of my beta-readers asked me to answer the question 'what would completely break your character' for Chith. Set sometime before "Arcane and Apples" when Chith is still Osseus' apprentice.

**Chith - Enigma**

Osseus takes them to a desolate stretch of earth far from the warmth of the desert, where shadows writhe and swampland threatens to exhume the dead as much as it craves it. The brisk wind and mist chills Chith's bones, even through the cloak and layers he has draped about himself. In the distance, carrion birds call loudly, drawing others to a plethora of scattered feasts.

With each step through the grime, Chith feels death blossom beneath him. Some is fresh, and some very ancient. This land has never been settled because the borders between it and the Hells are thin. Sometimes they crack, and demons crawl forth from the mud.

He tightens his cloak, avoiding his mentor's curious gaze. Osseus wears no such protection. His garb is silk and cotton and countless bones, some sewn into the material, others hanging from his shoulders like calcified chainmail. If he notices the cold, he gives no indication. A true necromancer would not care.

Chith wonders, not for the first time, why  _he_  does. He is Osseus' prized apprentice. He wells with vast necromantic potential, or so he has been told. To feel death as he does, so subtlety and without effort, is a gift that cannot be learned. But it should be able to be harnessed.

They sit in the centre of the rot, facing each other, Osseus' gaze still never leaving him. The older necromancer digs bony fingers through the muck before bringing a sludged finger to his lips, tasting it for signs of blood and decay. He nods.

They're here because despite Chith's bottomless potential, he cannot crack through to the power all necromancers should wield. He has watched Osseus raise corpses with little more than a flick of a finger. The flasks on his mentor's hips, laden with blood and similar fluids, provide him additional materials for his craft. Osseus is an artist of the dead. And when death occurs, he creates art that preserves the Balance.

"The Balance rests in all things," Osseus says, his smooth voice carrying through the stifling fog like an echo. "In light and in dark. In life and in death. The transition between the two is where we draw our power."

They are words Chith has heard before, countless times in countless versions. Still, he nods, listening attentively, because perhaps, just perhaps, this time will be different. Osseus has stuck with him for three years, trying to mold him into the necromancer he should become. He knows his continual failure disappoints the man, though he will never show it. Chith knows how Osseus brags about him to the other Nephalem, as if speaking Chith's brilliance into existence will impart him with skills he lacks.

The thing Chith hates second-most in the world is disappointing others. He tries incredibly hard, and in the past such relentless optimism has served him well. He has survived in this world on his own through positivity and persistence, and that it fails him now irks him terribly.

Deep down, Chith  _knows_  why it fails him. Because the thing he hates  _most_  in all of creation is death. He would do anything to avoid it. Yet here he sits, his legs covered in the mire, Osseus staring at him, surrounded by the deafening echoes of the dying. He wills himself to dip, finally, into that cesspool.

He closes his eyes and buries his hands in the mud. The death is fresh. Perhaps yesterday, or the day before. It throbs in his mind, and he reaches for it, reaching invisible limbs towards the carcass that has sunk to the real earth. A lesser beast of some sort, likely demonic. He grasps its form, wills his own into it, and bids it:  _rise_.

Chith thinks he has failed. Then, the muck begins to bubble and lurch. The corpse springs from it, limbs flailing, and throws itself at him. Twisted arms and shattered legs do not stop it. Revolted, Chith falls back, scampering away as the newly-made undead follows him. Gurgling laughter intersperses with the sound of slippery limbs. At first he thinks it is Osseus, cackling at him for being terrified.

Then he realizes with growing horror that the creature itself is cawing. Its jaws open and close with grotesque snaps. It raises its arms and stares at the deformed bones, then returns its hollow-eyed glare to Chith.

"What in the Hells," Osseus hisses. His mentor is already standing, hands on his weapons, though he does not move to draw them. Yet.

"Begone!" Chith manages, reaching within himself to feel the tether that connects him to the creature. It glimmers blindingly, a singular conduit of power that pushes the dead to its feet. "Begone!"

The beast still cackles. It won't stop. The noise shatters Chith's composure, and he wishes nothing more than to escape from it. This thing, this abomination of nature.

This creation of his.

A rattling scream escapes him. The tether shatters. The corpse gives one final, gurgling laugh, and collapses back into the mud.

Throat raw, chest heaving, Chith stares up at his mentor, who returns the look with one of confusion. He doesn't ask if he's done it right. He knows he hasn't. This is not the command of the undead he is supposed to wield. This was something else, something  _wrong._

Osseus ponders things silently, before shaking his head and gesturing for Chith to follow him. "Come. There is nothing more I can teach you. Though, I know someone who can, perhaps. Someone whose command of the dead is less…clean than my own. She may understand the…things you create."

Chith recognizes the dismissal. He is being cast off to another, having failed Osseus more than his master can stand. Those thoughts he pushes away, for his mind is full of repeating images of the beast clawing its way back to life, then laughing and dying horrendously at his biding.

He is supposed to be a necromancer. He doubts that even more, now. And he wonders, as he follows Osseus, if he will ever figure out the purpose of the power welling within him.


	9. Malthael - Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr ask requesting a scene where Malthael experiences 'joy'. I held onto this one for quite awhile because I knew it would be relevant later, but didn't want to drop character spoilers. This short isn't set at a specific time in the series, but it definitely encompasses the time-frame up to and shortly after "A Light in the Darkness".

**Malthael - Joy**

Joy is a subdued, subtle emotion that sneaks into Malthael's being when he is least aware of its presence. It has always been that way.

Sometimes, when the night is late and his eyes close while he reads, he dreams of sitting atop the tallest columns in the Pools of Wisdom. The wispy edges of the Light catch his cloak and whip it about. His wings, tall and amethyst in colour, wave gently in the breeze. His more astute siblings would recognize the action as partially his own doing, a subtly displayed sign of excitement. Because more than anything else, Malthael craves experience.

Experience brings knowledge. Gazing into the Chalice does not simply present the wielder with facts. It shows them the world. The truth. A wise wielder can discern the threads it presents.

While the Chalice's reach is far, even it did not convey the depth of the mortal experience. It did not show the leaves as they shift colour in the autumn chill. Nor did it convey the scent of old books or the endless variations of food that humans create.

The mortal experience is restricted and narrow. But it is  _rich_ , and not without some of the things Malthael treasures from before. Tristram, surrounded by dense forests and river land, has its nearby cliffs and hills. The wind still flings his cloak as he sits atop cairns and overhangs. He feels the rush of the breeze across his face and lets the air sing him the songs of Sanctuary.

Then, once he has imbibed in the natural world, he returns to town. And he shares this experience with others.

Such a strange concept, friends. He had no need for such as the Archangel of Wisdom. Each angel, including Malthael, was a cog in a mighty creation: designed with purpose, and driven to fulfill such by their creator. Though Malthael treasured each of those who claimed his Aspect for their own, he did not see them as true equals. Nor did he seek them out beyond their need for his advice.

Mortality is strange, and the human mind fragile. Though, it is less brittle than a Seraph's, for even cracked, the mortal psyche will still function. But mortality also brings with it new drives unfamiliar to him previously. Alongside his unquenchable desire to explore and learn burns the need for companionship.

But, old habits are still habits, and it takes time before Malthael attempts to seek others out. Even more time passes before he finds someone who truly understands and loves the intricacies of the world the way he does. Their meeting is entirely accidental.

Yet, he finds it hard to imagine a time when he did not know Farah. He knows his immortal self would have considered her as simply another facet of his life, as he had done with his kin. A being with a purpose, competent and driven.

As he had done with Urzael, and Erdith, and Lamiel, and all the others who he had twisted and distorted because he needed their reason for existence to change to suit his needs.

He will not make the same mistake this time. Nor will he so casually disregard the trust placed in him by another. Regardless of his regrets and his hesitation, he cannot avoid the librarian even if he tries. Each letter she writes instills in him an overwhelming curiosity and the need to learn more. Each conversation they have in the darkness of the night reminds him, unequivocally, that he is not a solitary figure atop the highest point of the world.

In this realm of mortal creations and experiences, he has an equal. One who accepts him, drives him to be greater, and meets his challenges with admirable fervour.

And in the brief moments where he admits to his mortality in all its facets, he is accepting, even thankful, that he was not resigned to death. The knowledge that he is not alone brings Malthael more joy than any moment in the Pools ever did. Different and muted, perhaps.

But the pinnacle of his existence?

Quite likely.


	10. Ensemble Cast - Justice and Wisdom Walk into a Bar (It Becomes Holey)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Tristram's newest resident doesn't know when to stop asking questions. Conversation goes awry at the Slaughtered Calf Inn. (Humour)
> 
> A/N: I had planned on this happening in "A Light in the Darkness", until the story became both serious and lengthy. Presented without further comment.

**Justice and Wisdom Walk into a Bar  
** **(It Becomes Holey)**

It had been awhile since Tristram had attracted a resident who overtly changed the face of the town. Lyndon was hard pressed to think of anyone since Farah, and that had been almost a year earlier. In her case, outside of the library, the biggest change she had wrought had been in Malthael. And while the scholar's actions may not have been obvious to some, to Lyndon, who worked with the man more closely, his growing affection for the woman was blatant.

Their accidental courtship had been the rogue's biggest amusement for months, until Chith arrived and started asking endless questions. The young man was now, as Lyndon jokingly called it, in-the-know regarding the true nature of his companions, as well as the details of his heritage. And being privy to such secrets, as it were, Chith wanted to understand them. Completely.

Malthael had expressed concerns about the behaviour, wondering if Chith would eventually uncover a situation so dark it would tamper the happy glow that seemed to radiate around him. Except several weeks had passed since he had come to Tristram, and it hadn't happened yet. It was not as if the town was without its shadows. Only, Chith seemed to take the darkness as an excuse to shine even brighter.

Lyndon was still unsure if the young not-quite-a-necromancer intended his queries to be as entertaining as they were. His earnest optimism seemed entirely legitimate, and the amusement it caused an accidental by-product. And it all should have been balanced out by his Mistress. However, Zaira had made herself scarce since arriving in town, having claimed a run-down shack for her own on Tristram's outskirts. He assumed she was filling it with all manner of gruesome things, based on the smell that wafted out to the street.

Which suited him fine, because if she wanted to stay in the House of Rotting Corpses, then she wouldn't be present to throw tangible shade on the group's festivities. Nothing was more off-putting than a necromancer with a penchant for sadism and an absent sense of humour. He could trade the stench for her not bothering them at the Slaughtered Calf Inn that evening.

Particularly since hilarities were already afoot. He paused, raised his beer stein, and took stock of the scene.

Lyndon (himself), three drinks in and enjoying himself immensely, because everyone was putting on quite a show.

Tyrael, a stein up on Lyndon, demonstrating the mortal weakness he had for alcohol, which he jokingly called the nectar of Anu when he partook.

Lorath Nahr, second in command of the Horardrim, who had returned from Kingsport a few days earlier and was busy filling the former-angel in on everything he had learned about the evolving Nephalem situation there; he repeatedly asked Tyrael if he was paying attention, which made Lyndon snort into his drink, because the answer was obviously no.

Aya and Eirena, a bottle of wine between them, skipping glasses altogether and simply passing the bottle back and forth while discussing the finer elements of arcane magics. It was probably best Li-Ming was away from town, or the bottle would have emptied even faster.

Valla and Kormac, trading commentary on crossbow bolts instead of alcohol, though there was a bottle of spirits on the bar beside them that Lyndon suspected they were sneaking when no one was looking.

And, finally, the most enjoyable part of it all.

Chith and his former mentor Osseus, tall pints of water in hand, bludgeoning the poor sap sitting between them at the bar with questions. And by poor sap, he meant Malthael.

Lyndon had known him for over five years at that point, which was nothing when he considered how long the other man and Tyrael had co-existed together. Even so, it was long enough the rogue had deduced most of his emotional mannerisms. They were subtle, usually short-lived, and often amusing.

"But if Lady Auriel carries Al'maiesh," Chith was busy asking, "and our friend Tyrael wields El'druin, then why do your weapons not have names?"

The scholar tapped a finger against the mug of tea he clasped. He leaned forward on the bar, dark hair scattering loosely about his face, enough so it almost hid his eyeroll.

Almost.

"Because wisdom needs neither blade nor conflict to do its work," he said, dryly.

"I don't know," Lyndon said, unable to help himself. "Somehow when I see you doing work, you are usually stabbing things."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Malthael was clearly annoyed. "Al'maiesh is not a weapon."

Chith's eyes widened. "But according to the legends, Auriel was a feared fighter during the Sin War! She slayed many a foe with the Cord of Hope, using it to throw or to bind."

Osseus cackled. "Are you suggesting he throw Chalad'ar at the next imp to cross the road?"

Several conversations in the tavern stopped, as the others apparently considered the mental image of Malthael heaving the Chalice in self-defence.

"It would be a workable cudgel," Tyrael said, eventually. "You do often say you wish you could impose knowledge on the uneducated."

Malthael sighed.

"I've seen Farah do similar with a book to the face," Aya said, before taking a long swig of wine and poorly imitating a throwing motion. "Be enlightened by the  _weight_  of these words!"

"Truly," Eirena added, breaking down into giggles before stealing the wine back. "Because it would be the  _heaviest_  text."

"The Demonic Bestiary."

"Spices of the Eastern Realms."

"Tales of Lust: Desires of the Angelic and Demonic."

The enchantress' eyes widened. "You made that one up."

"I did not! She keeps it in the reference section."

"Excuse me," Chith interrupted. "I have always wondered about that. Angels are beings made of living light. And demons, often living fire." He glanced at Malthael. "How then did the Nephalem come into being?"

The bar grew uncomfortably quiet, save Lyndon, who was unable to subdue the mirth rising in his gut. Of all things for the boy to ask, he wanted to know about the birds and the bees.

To Malthael's credit, he did provide an answer. "With much enjoyment," he said. "I would assume."

The room erupted with good-natured laughter. Chith's cheeks turned a deep crimson. Raising an eyebrow, the scholar took a long drink of tea and slowly returned his cup back to the counter, before pouring another.

"Oh, Light," Aya gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Truly," Tyrael said, also chuckling loudly, "You would have to find someone involved in such…actions…and ask them."

"Perhaps it is a seductive dance and a summoning," Osseus offered.

"If only real childbirth were that simple," Valla threw in, showing interest in the conversation for the first time. "I suspect they had it easy."

"I assumed Mal might know," Chith said, the blush still evident on his face. "Being mortal and all, now."

Malthael's eyebrow crept higher.

Don't do it, Lyndon thought, realizing where he was going with his questions.  _You must have a bit of tact._

"And you are in a committed relationship," Chith continued. "Unlike your brother."

Lyndon clanked his stein hard on the table, groaning. Chith had gone and done it. He had asked the one thing none of them would ever ask, because it was rude; and also, Lyndon did not want to know what Farah and Malthael did together. He was under the assumption it was mostly reading and deep philosophical discussions. But asking either of them about it felt as dirty as asking a priest to disrobe and parade about the street.

Behind the bar, Bron cleared his throat loudly, and absently set about wiping already-washed glasses.

"You are, aren't you?" Chith asked, his expression growing unsure. "I assumed, given how you look at each other. And you share your meals. And, well, a great deal of your time."

"Farah has exquisitely good taste in food," Malthael said, remarkably even toned. His knuckles, however, had turned white from clutching his mug too hard. An almost imperceptible colour crossed his pale cheeks. "Also, she is intelligent, and enjoyable to converse with. Unlike…certain others."

Lyndon took an internal bet as to whether the man was more embarrassed for himself or Farah. If it were the latter, that would be a grievous error on Chith's part. But before he could ponder it further, something truly remarkable happened. The young man demonstrated a semblance of wisdom.

"Then you don't," he said, slowly, "partake in…uhm…"

"Enlightening discussions and general commiseration about the imbecilic nature of our acquaintances?" Malthael finished for him.

"Oh," said Chith.

"Quite."

"I assumed much."

"Clearly."

Chith looked as though he wanted to fold into himself and vanish into the floor. Lyndon almost felt badly for him.

"But, to answer your question," Malthael said, unexpectedly, "Most records suggest my kin took on a different physical form before procreating. As would be required for beings who are inherently non-sexual. And naturally ill-equipped."

The wine bottle cracked loudly onto the table as Eirena dropped it. "Wait. What?"

"Is that problematic?"

"I assumed you weren't interested because angels did not have that sort of desire in  _any_  form. But if your brethren did, after taking on mortal form…"

Her eyes went to Tyrael, who had been suspiciously silent the whole discussion. He also seemed to have acquired several additional empty beer steins.

"I knew it!" She drawled, pointing emphatically. "That time we were in Kingsport, and you struck up that conversation with the red-head and then told us you had to go  _buy linens at the market._ "

"Or when we were at the midsummer celebration years back," Kormac added. "And he disappeared most of the night after speaking with that lovely minstrel.  _I_  knew she had taken a liking to him. Eirena, is this really such a surprise?"

"Or when he saw me off in Kingsport a month ago!" Lorath said, glaring at his commanding officer. "You told me you were far too busy to go further! Was it the same woman?"

"The red-head was a man," Kormac clarified.

"Your judgement is uncalled for," Tyrael said evasively, gesturing to Bron for another drink. "You have  _all_  indulged in the same on more than one occasion."

"No judgement, friend," Lyndon grinned. "Just general amusement at the degree of your indulgences. Although frankly, your immense enjoyment of mortal activities was rather obvious to me as well." He glanced briefly to Malthael who seemed relieved the attention had shifted from him. "I suppose variety is truly the spice of life, as they say."

"But this makes sense!" Chith exclaimed, enthusiasm returning to his voice. "Such variance in the angelic host would explain the same within humanity itself."

"What a wonderful conclusion." Osseus nodded approvingly. "I am pleased to see you remain such an astute learner."

"And now that we've indeed concluded this enlightening discussion," Aya interrupted, rubbing her nose, "could we discuss something other than my sister's personal life?"

"Agreed," Tyrael groaned, moving to drink his beer before seemingly realizing that Malthael was staring at him. Intently. " _Brother_!"

The other man tipped his head inquisitively.

"Stop thinking about things related to…me. That is inappropriate."

"As were the noises coming from your room that kept me awake last we journeyed to Kingsport. I was merely attempting to ascertain if they were related to this discussion."

Tyrael slammed his fist into the table, rattling it. "Stop. Now."

"Bron, you'd best bring a round for everyone," Lyndon called, as he prepared to settle in and enjoy the second act of the entertainment. "Actually, crack a keg. I think we will need it."

* * *

To her mild embarrassment, Farah was late arriving to the gathering at the Slaughtered Calf Inn. The others had invited her, of course; but she had also just received a new shipment of texts, which she had wanted to sort before the local students began their new studies in the coming week. And then the material had proven most interesting, and she had become completely absorbed in reading.

She sighed, knowing Aya would berate her for putting work ahead of relaxation. It was impossible to hide things from her sister, and Farah was also keenly aware her own behaviour was predictable. Though, she would gladly suffer the woman's ribbing if it meant she could find something to eat. The Inn had excellent food, she was starving, and-

The scene she found as she turned the corner to the main square was not what she expected.

Smoke billowed from the Slaughtered Calf's roof in places where smoke should not have. Bright amber flames flickered behind broken windows, whose glass had been shattered from the inside. Several water buckets, still wet, were discarded near the door. Her friends sat in various positions on the square across from the tavern.

Confused and shocked in equal turns, Farah took a seat next to Aya, who was observing the ordeal with a look of intoxicated guilt.

"Arcanists should not drink," Valla declared.

"It was an accident!"

"Lighting the spirits bottle on fire was  _not_  an accident."

"No, but it  _was_  a mistake," Malthael interjected. "Wood, much more flammable than alcohol."

"You going to test that?" Aya said. "Smartarse."

"No. One sample is good enough."

Farah observed the exchange with growing dismay. Her sister had set the tavern on fire. And most of her friends appeared to be extremely drunk. "What happened?" She gestured at the Slaughtered Calf, whose roof was currently in the process of collapsing.

"It was my fault," Chith slurred. "I asked about-"

Malthael covered the younger man's mouth with a hand. "No. This is one of those things we do not speak of again. Ever."

"Yes. That." Lyndon raised a finger from where he lay near a bush. "Like the wedding."

"Worse."

"I thought you didn't remember much. You liar."

They all flinched as the tavern roof fell through to the floor, its wood splintering loudly and the fire roaring upward.

An awkward silence continued for several minutes. Eventually, Kormac said, "We're going to have to rebuild it. Aren't we." He stretched, yawned, and stared at the billowing smoke. "I should have had more to drink."

"I did not even get that far," Farah said. "In case you have forgotten."

"Here." Malthael reached to his side and passed her a teapot and a cup. The cup had a chip on the lip, and the pot was charred. "Or, perhaps not with the ash."

Accepting the fire-damaged gift, Farah decided that she still liked the lot of them, even if they were possibly mad and had burned down the inn. She carefully poured a half cup, checked it for particles, and took a tentative sip.

"Mmmm."

"Acceptable?"

"Quite." She paused her sipping when Chith made to speak, only to be interrupted again by Malthael.

"No," said the scholar.

"But, Mal, I was only going to point out-"

"Malthael. And, no."

"But you  _gave it to her!_ That is what I was speaking of earlier!"

Inquisitive, Farah looked to each of them in turn, hoping one of her friends would explain the situation. "Am I missing something?"

"Nothing at all," Malthael insisted, though he scowled at Chith all the same. "Some topics should remain unspoken."

"But I was correct!"

And so, they continued, while the Inn burned, and Farah drank her tea with more than a small degree of curiosity. It seemed she had not missed the whole party after all. At least the most exciting part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: They all pitched in to fix up the inn. Bron supervised. They were not provided free food or beverages.
> 
> "A Light in the Darkness" was literally meant to be a "they burn down a tavern somehow" story when I started writing it, with the gem-stealing as more of an excuse to lead to the fire. Once I had a chapter written, I realized I was writing an actual series, and the tavern-burning got shelved—until this fic. This is also why Malthael has a throw-away line at the beginning of Act III about them not setting anything on fire, and it never ends up happening in the story. (Though they do blow up a tuning gem and break all the windows in the Palace because of that, so I guess that sort of counts.)
> 
> (Inspired in no small part by one of zaera-d's stories of playing DnD with their group, and similarly setting the local bar aflame.)


	11. Zaira & Malthael - Heroes

**Heroes**

There were few things Zaira loathed more than being made a fool. But to be made a fool by her own idiocy and someone she previously admired was intolerable. She scowled at her temporary work space, refusing to let her anger control how she packed her materials. Rage was her companion, not her master, and she had learned long ago to channel it appropriately. Which was why she was returning to Caldeum, where her real work lay, and where she was free from the irritating judgement of those 'purer' than her.

She had tried to tolerate Tristram's particularly naïve climate. But the longer she remained, the more she was reminded she did not belong there. Those who remembered her from years past looked away from her. Osseus had awkwardly gone out of his way to avoid her whenever she approached. And others stared at her strangely, reminding her that even the purest of hearts indulged in gossip.

Not that her life had historically been much different. The Church was no better. Their preference for  _calm_  neutrality had always grated her: to deny her feelings was to deny her humanity. Her old Rathman master and teacher thought himself above such imperfections, as did so many others she had met who did Rathma's work. They all wore needless symbolic chains and spent as much time moderating themselves as they did maintaining the Balance.

The Balance was what truly mattered. That it was not reflected within her was a permanent point of contention between her and the Church. Yet, they were content to only disparage her and her methods instead of meting punishment, so long as she was efficient and effective in her work.

Hypocrites.

"So be it. I will be your scape goat," she muttered, swirling a vial of plasma before stowing it in her pack. "Balance, by any means."

Any. Light, or dark. Life, or death. That the Church limited itself to the barest edges of each was its own issue. She would not be bridled so thoroughly.

" _What fool are you to have such power over death and demons and not wield it to save yourself or your companions? Were you afraid to dirty your hands, coward?"_

Growling, she pushed the memory away, though the humiliation it brought rushed through her all the same.

" _My hands are already dirty. They will never be clean. And you will not ask me such questions again."_

It was not how she dreamt meeting the individual from whom she had learned so much. Nor was he anything like she expected, had she known  _to_  expect Malthael to be alive and in mortal form. Though, of the many things that had caught her by surprise, the Reaper's continued survival was not one of them. He was, or at least he had been, Death itself. His soul  _should_  have been eternal.

"Balance, by any means," she repeated.

Rathma's necromancy was limited by physical constraints and the availability of materials. Zaira had mastered it while still young, and even then, she had known there was more to Death than her master had taught. Now learned and experienced, she knew for fact that the Church's understanding of such arts was still in its infancy.

Malthael, however. The Aspect of Death. He  _understood_.

Or, he had. Unlike everyone else in her life. They had laughed at first, then mocked, then feared her as her exploration of death had continued. When news of Westmarch had reached her, she had sought the details in person, knowing, instinctively, that the city held the answers she was looking for. In the burned ruins she had found the shattered remnants of brilliance. Twisted beings. Soul-catchers. Souls themselves, stretched and reformed for ulterior purposes.

The Reaper of Westmarch had not bothered to draw his power from physical forms. He had gone to the life source itself.

As did she. Death lingered everywhere. Even souls departed long ago left their mark on Sanctuary. She drew essence from them, preserved it, and wove their screams and whispers into the Shroud that stole breath from enemies of the Balance.

Misguided, Osseus had called her, as their erotically enjoyable partnership had ended more than a decade ago:  _"My dear, you are obsessed with something that should not be worshipped. We slew him for a reason. His methods were vile. That we were forced to wield death_ _ **in that way**_ _to best him felt tainted."_

Heretic, the Church called her, for daring to imitate the Lord of Death himself:  _"These abilities can only lead to your undoing. Death himself fell prey to the addictive allure of such all-encompassing power. You play with the very fabric of reality."_

Well, then. Let her be a heretic. At least the Balance would not fall on her watch. Now that she had seen Malthael's current state and knew how much of his previous form he had lost, she knew the responsibility was hers alone. His words  _did_  sting, as did all admonishments from personal heroes. But she was also not above critiquing her true mentor.

Mortals, unlike immortals, were fallible. In this one regard, she knew for absolute certain that Malthael was wrong. Death was natural. Unavoidable. And he  _was_  a fool to disregard that, no matter his claims otherwise.

Zaira considered the empty space before her; her possessions were stowed, and with them, any new connections she had potentially built to Tristram were gone. Perhaps in the future she could convince Malthael to divulge his remaining secrets. Until then, she would continue to walk her own path. Wherever the Balance took her.

* * *

The air was unseasonably brisk for a summer night. Amid the humidity, a north wind howled through the trees, rattling leaves and pine needles and threatening to throw Malthael's cowl from his head. Not that the cold bothered him much when he was properly clothed. He retained a lingering ability to control the chill if he bothered, though he very much disliked drawing even that much from his previous powers. There was a direct connection between ice and death, at least where the arcane was concerned.

Readjusting his position amongst the branches, he surveyed the glowing lights of Tristram and the various forms bustling about the town's square. In the seven years he had lived there it had grown exponentially, quickly approaching in size the realm's smallest cities. He closed his eyes and considered the wafting sensations of magic emanating from it, noting, not for the first time, persistent undercurrents running underneath reality's superficial façade.

A confluence of power, Farah had described it as, when they had spoken of it. One she had seen in dreams touched by the Sight. That his own observations had been echoed by another told Malthael he was not imagining things, nor should he disregard the sensations, however subtle.

Long ago, he had spoken with Itherael regarding the similarities and differences between their domains. Fate, he had determined, saw the actual facets of reality, including where they would persist in the future. Wisdom saw the threads that drew the facets together. Positive and negative spaces, working simultaneously from very different directions.

When his connection to the Chalice had been strongest, Malthael had glimpsed in it his own tangible insights into the future. Not of objects and individuals, but cause and effect, the movements of ideas and powers on a grand scale. When he considered the magic brimming within Tristram, he could almost grasp at similar fragments, though without the Chalice to show him more clearly, he was forced to guess what they meant. The only wisdom he could draw from it was that Tristram or its people would be important in the coming future.

Which, given its population, was understandable. The world was never static when Nephalem were involved. Still, that the threads were pulling and weaving so overtly gave far too much credence to the words of the old Caldemese bookseller. And nothing disquieted him more than being at the centre of a maelstrom without context or understanding.

The crunching of boots on foliage drew Malthael from his reverie. Thinking it was Lyndon come to find him, as he did sometimes, he dextrously swung down from the branch, rolled across the dirt, and came upright on his feet in a single motion.

Steel flashed in the moonlight. He stumbled back as a blade swept where his throat had been a moment earlier. Then, shortly after, a thick fog rose from the ground, enveloping him.

Not Lyndon. Realizing who he had accidentally ambushed, Malthael drew one of his blades, raised it, and willed the weapon to illuminate. A sharp, amethyst light broke through the shroud, revealing a tall figure standing several feet away, her dagger raised.

"Strange greetings," Malthael said, eventually lowering and sheathing his weapon when the mist fell away and disintegrated.

"Foolish words, coming from one who drops out of trees."

"My mistake," he admitted, supressing a shiver of disgust as lingering fragments of the shroud brushed his boots. "Few venture outside the town at night. I had thought you were Lyndon."

"Ah. And I thought perhaps you had come to see me off." Zaira stepped closer, the moonlight revealing a heavy travel garment and a pack strapped across her broad shoulders. "How stupid of me."

Though the necromancer's words were imbued with sarcasm, underneath them, Malthael heard something else. Legitimate disappointment? No, he doubted she had expected any sort of farewell, or she would have left during the day.

The last they had spoken had not been on good terms. Truthfully, he felt more than a hint of shame when he remembered his brusque dismissal of her. He had never been one to meet rudeness with equal venom, nor did he willingly let others fracture his usually strong emotional evenness. He had been exhausted, and shaken, and had revealed far more of that to her than he had intended. She had glimpsed beneath his impenetrable mask, and he was honestly not sure what she thought about it.

"If you are going to stand there and stare, at least walk with me." She finally snapped her dagger back into its sheath and swept past him. "Or is this too much darkness for you?"

"Darkness of the night and the spirit are very different things." He had nowhere to be; sighing, he jogged to catch her, then fell into place at her side. "One is part of the natural cycle. The other, the furthest limits of the mortal experience."

"You sound like my teachers," she growled, though she made no move to leave him behind. "Yet, the more I learn, the more I see that the line that is supposed to separate the two does not exist. We are as much a part of the Balance as the world around us. And someone must balance out the Light."

"Light or dark, all extremes eventually lead to the same place."

"Death?" She scoffed. "I know your words."

"All things die, eventually. But no, that is not what I meant. The battle of extremes leads to destruction. For all sides."

"There is no Balance if there is no existence."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then you understand why there is no place for such abstract conflicts."

The necromancer seemed to contemplate his words. Her knuckles tightened about her pack, and her lips pinched.

"I am not against the darkness," Malthael said quietly. "What I detest is blind devotion to ideas without further thought. No angel or demon questions their purpose without fundamentally ceasing to be as they were. But mortals are granted this option. They may forge their own path, beholden to whatever they choose. I wish to believe that enlightened mortals realize they fight for neither the Light nor the Dark, but for survival."

"Of themselves?"

"If they wish. Or perhaps they may rise above such selfishness and consider the preservation of their kind as a whole."

"And yet, you would have left yourself and your friends to perish, because you consider your past so abhorrent." Her tone grew cold. "I do not regret my words. You have lost your way. You are a hypocrite even as you tell me otherwise."

"Because my past was prideful, and I was blind. I thought since the Light had failed to protect itself, that Death was the only answer. It was not. It was another extreme, incomplete on its own." He absently brushed his palms together, considering the flesh and the variability of life it represented. "Why do you draw on Death?"

"Why do all necromancers?"

"To preserve the Balance, yes. But you delve deeper. You harness souls. The literal essence of other beings. Who, I would hope are those of your deserving foes, and not of innocents." His eyes narrowed. "Do not lie to me. If I were to discover otherwise, I would  _end_  such horrific sin."

"As you did your own?"

He forced himself to breathe. She delighted in pointing out his hypocrisy. It pained him with its truth, and he refused to allow her to win. "My death was necessary," he admitted. "But you have not answered my question."

"Remind me."

"Why do you draw on Death as you do?"

"As you said. Because the Light fails to protect us. And I would do what others cannot."

"Then you will fall as I did." When she snarled, he grasped her cloak and pulled her to a stop. Her stare met his, and within her eyes he saw pride, and a lust for power.

And hesitation.

"That is not a threat," he continued, "but a certainty. The Balance is a  _whole_ , even for those who lean one direction to uphold it. And such a whole is inherently complex. Light, and dark, and all facets in between. If you wish to walk this path, then do so because it is  _yours_  to walk. Not because it is the only choice."

She tugged her garb from his grip and turned away. "And your choice is to dismiss all you have learned, even if it would aid you?"

"Yes."

"You are still a fool."

"Possibly." The wind intensified, whipping about their cloaks and chilling his face. "It is hard to forget the feeling of thoughtless evil. Or the sadism it inspires. I do not trust myself, nor do I have the right, to tread near such ideas. But perhaps you will find true Balance where I did not."

"You know this is why I leave."

"I do."

"And you know all I have learned is from you."

"Yes."

"Then, my Lord Reaper, I will dare give you some advice." She looked over her shoulder and glared at him with pale eyes. "Stop believing you are the only noble exception in this world. Your constant embracing of mediocrity is disgusting. You are mortal, now. Learn to face your mistakes and overcome them. Someday, there will be no one else there to save you. Or your friends. Or that woman you seem to love so much."

"This is not about her."

"It will be, imbecile. If things fall apart. But until then, I will go walk my path. You should find yours." A cloud of shadow rose about her, obscuring her form within even the moonlight. "And when we meet again, try and show me you are less of a coward."

Before he could reply, the darkness fell away, and the necromancer was gone.

Malthael looked down to find he had dug his nails into his palms. He forced them open and resisted slamming one into the nearest tree. She was caustic, and abrasive, and cared even less about social pleasantries than he did. Which made the fact that she was right all the worse. The future  _was_  falling into place, and Tristram was at the heart of it. Fate did not pick sides, nor did it spare those involved accidentally.

He sank to the dirt and buried his face in his hands. Whether he did it then, or later, he would have to determine where he stood within such conflicts. And what he would do, or give, to keep his dearest friend safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: They're both right, and wrong. Life is like that. And that is definitely a question Malthael will have to answer. Next week, we'll visit Chith for a bit and learn some of what makes him tick. Thanks for your continued reading!


	12. Chith - Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was a tumblr ask response from awhile back. One of my beta-readers asked me to answer the question 'what was the best thing in your character's life' for Chith. Set after "A Light in the Darkness" and the preceding "Tristram" chapters.

**Chith - Purpose**

For the first time in his existence, Chith's life makes sense. Gone is the confusing, breathtaking pace his world progressed at before. Gone are the dark requirements of necromantic duty, and the continual failure that plagued his attempts to embrace his (vastly incorrect) purpose. Instead, his world is now filled with the sort of light he has always contained inside himself. A light that burns relentlessly, and always did, even in his darkest moments.

Hope maintained him as he was passed from monastery to monastery as a child. Hope preserved him as each church turned him away, unsure what to do with the young child who felt death. Hope sustained him whenever he was reminded that selflessly compassionate behaviour brought about the death of his parents, who he does not remember. Hope drove him to try, repeatedly, as he failed first Osseus, and then Zaira.

The strangest bit is Chith didn't  _know_  it was hope shadowing him, not until he had looked into Mal's eyes and been drawn into that other realm. The memory remains strong with him, and if he begins to waver in his new resolve, he imagines Auriel, the Archangel of Hope, and her warm voice, and he knows that his true home isn't in fact Sanctuary, but a realm far beyond it.

Chith has never felt proper kinship with others. He cares for them, yes. A great deal. For each one of them. They are precious and unique, and his deepest desire is to make them all happy. But he has always suffered from the lingering sensation that he is something else.

With Mal's help, he begins to understand why. The older man is brusque and soft-spoken, but Chith quickly learns it is from personality rather than any offense towards him. And when he discovers exactly how much the man  _knows_ , he forgives him any of his short-comings, for if  _his_  mind were filled with so many considerations, Chith knows he would fall apart. He is glad that burden lies with someone else.

Not that they don't share some similarities. Chith reads, voraciously. About people and history, and all manners of beings and cultures. He wishes to understand them and himself, and how he fits in. Mal aids him accordingly, bringing him countless stacks of texts and scrolls. A few times, Chith garners his direct attention, and he peppers him with questions he cannot find answers to elsewhere. Sometimes, Mal cuts him off; Chith knows his lengthy speech habits irritate the man. But they make do.

Even when Mal frustrates him, Chith thinks back to that moment in Caldeum, when the Wolves were onto them, and the stench of impeding death rose from the streets. When Mal showed him Hope, and Chith drew it through him, and from the Light crafted the spell that was their salvation.

He remembers their words, after.

" _Did I do it right?"_

" _Hardly my Aspect to assess."_

He never asked the same of Osseus or Zaira. He feared their fake smiles of disappointment and false words of encouragement. Mal's smile was barely perceptible—but it was genuine.

Chith is not the same as him, for angelic reasons. He is hope incarnate in a mortal form, a rare case where the demonic blood is thin and the angelic rises to the surface. Sanctuary feels dirty and overwhelming to him because he craves the pure Light of the Heavens—even if the Heavens is not for him.

He knows it is not. The thought is bittersweet, and he pushes it away, as antithesis as it is to his personality. It is not his duty or his desire to despair. It is his duty to bring hope to those around him. He is  _not_  a necromancer. He is a healer, a rare thing in a world bent on destruction. Even though he loathes death, he feels it wherever he walks, because, without sensing the dying, how can he possibly save them?

Chith does not know where the future will take him. He has much to learn, and he knows this journey will take him away from Tristram, to places where ancient healers rest and their books are maintained. But at least he knows, now, the essence of his soul. And he knows that he has been right all along. He does not serve the Balance or the darkness.

He serves the Light. Unbridled, unwaveringly, and with every facet of his being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You would almost think that Malthael misses mentoring people. At least Chith is more enthusiastic than everyone else. (Who am I kidding, he has a soft spot for the kid. Against his better judgement.)
> 
> The lovely art is courtesy of @fishyfiash over at tumblr.
> 
> Unless I come up with any additional "Tristram" chapters, this will be the last one before I start posting Act IV! I'm aiming to do so sometime the middle of December. There will be a bit of a break to allow me time to finish editing. After I start posting, however, I'll be back on the "one chapter a week" schedule until it's finished.


End file.
